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In The Shadow of Dragons Chapter 1: Requited Passions

18+ | 7.2k | Daemon Targaryen X Female OC | possessive, protective, objectifying, simping, raunchy Daemon | Uncle / niece incest, Smut, Dragons, Political Intrigue, Plotting, Murder, lots of old timey concepts that don't make a lot of sense today, but are still kind of hot/fun.

The second born daughter of King Viserys Targaryen, Ryna, is nine and ten years old and still unwed. Despite being surrounded by suitors, she has yet to find a man who captures her interest, and bristles at the pressure to select a husband. But a chance encounter with her enigmatic uncle, Daemon, promises to disrupt all her assumptions and to set her on a path she could never have anticipated. (Loosely set in episode 6, but Laena has already died a year prior)

CH 1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 Also on AO3

The Great Hall was bristling with celebration held in honor of Viserys’ latest grandson, Joffrey Velaryon. The massive chamber was alight with dancing shadows, decorated grandiosely with Targaryen tapestries hung where all could witness to demonstrate wealth and power. Long tables filled with the most toothsome of fine delicacies lined both sides of the throne room. Perhaps Father was trying to distract the noble assembly with pomp, away from the very obvious fact that Rhaenyra’s children were all bastards.

Numerous guests filed in with their entourages in tow, announced by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Criston Cole. Ryna grimaced at who he declared next.

“House Lannister with their lord, Jason Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, and Master of Casterly Rock,” Cole’s voice was stout enough, but had nowhere near the authority his predecessor, Lord Harrold Westerling had in his day.

The Lannister strode at the head of his retinue, like a preening peacock adorned in so much crimson and gold that one might think he were royalty and not the hosting family.

Ryna sat sandwiched between her good-brother Laenor Velaryon and Lyonel Strong, a position that made her feel most irritable as she was not even allowed the courtesy of being placed next to her own kin. The Hand was pleasant enough, albeit mostly a stranger, but she had never grown close to Laenor given how much time he spent preoccupied with affairs outside of his marriage.

As always her father, Viserys, sat proudly next to Rhaenyra, his named heir and, one might wonder at times, favored daughter, despite how much he protested to the contrary.

When the Lannister party drew close to the high table, Lord Jason bowed before them with a flourish and as his party withdrew, he climbed the steps and approached the King.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” he fawned in the manner only a Lannister could muster, a tone both disrespectful and servile at the same time. “Healthy babes are a worthy cause for celebration. Where is the strapping lad? I had hoped to pay my respects.”

Rhaenyra piped up this time, looking exhausted and not fully recovered from child bearing even though it had been days since Joffrey’s birth. Ryna supposed the wee babe had been keeping her awake more often than not.

“Prince Joffrey is resting. He would not tolerate staying up any longer. You know how babes are, always sleeping,” she replied, playing into Jason’s feigned deference.

It was then that the Lannister shot a glance down the table at Ryna. She tried to smile just politely enough so as not to encourage more attentions from the man, but it was without success.

“Your Grace…” he started off in that same falsely sycophantic tenor. “Has the Princess given any more thought to the courtship I proposed?”

Father looked down the table at her, leaning forward slightly so that he might see the expression on her face. Ryna’s eyes were pleading ‘No’ while trying to remain civil in the lord’s presence. Viserys’ features hardened with annoyance and he rested back into his chair.

“The Princess should be happy to consider your attentions. After all she is but ten and nine summers and still not wed,” his voice was stony and strict, markedly cross with her for shirking her duties even longer than Rhaenyra had.

Jason Lannister ruffled his feathers as he voiced appreciation to her father and stepped down the length of the table until he came to stand before her. Ryna had to choke back a smirk when the thought occurred to her that the Lannister’s sigil should be a primping cock instead of a lion, for Jason had more in common with a fowl than the fearsome and proud predator.

“Princess, I trust you will save me a dance?” he squawked and it took all she had to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I shall try, Lord Jason,” she answered with a prim smile through grit teeth. “But, I have not been feeling well. It might be something I ate.”

Father shot her an irate look and Ryna had no doubt that if they had been seated next to each other, that she would have felt his palpable frustration.

“The Princess is in good health,” Viserys said, with a snide smile. “Expect her company once the revelry starts.”

With a pompous smirk, Jason Lannister excused himself and made his way down the steps and back to the banquet. Ryna heaved a sigh, finding it difficult to hide her true feelings on this subject, despite years of learning to comport herself in the presence of refined company.

Viserys was still glaring at her, and she reckoned he might be wrathful enough to cause a row amongst guests and their kin alike.

“Ryna, draw near,” he called out and she rose from her seat and came to where he sat.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the birth of my grandchild, but unofficially, I had hoped you’d make use of the congregation of eligible lords and find a husband once and for all. Enough of this procrastination. Find a man worthy or I shall make the choice for you.” His voice was low so that the company in attendance of the great feast could not hear them.

“You would wed me to a Lannister?” she practically spat. “Just to fill the coffers with his dowry?!”

“Watch your tone with me, girl. You have heard me and I will not suffer your insolence any longer. Leave me so I might enjoy the festivities.” Viserys turned his head back to the next guests approaching the King’s table. He was done with her, his decision final.

Ryna could not help but to stomp swiftly away with a childish petulance that did not become a lady. Leaving her family behind, she slipped into the shadows of the great pillars that lined the throne room and made her way down a short corridor until she was outside in the crisp night air.

She let out a troubled sigh, wishing now that she had brought a goblet of wine with her. Ryna walked to the edge of the stone parapet and looked down at the splendor of King’s Landing in fall of the leaf. The color marking the trees was apparent even at nightfall and the sea was glittering in the moonlight just past the city’s edge. The sight made her feel both reverence and panic in equal measure, with a mounting desire to climb atop her dragon and take flight away.

Why should a princess of Valyrian blood be constrained to laws of man when she had the power to tame a dragon? She should be free to do as she longed to - to wed whom she desired, and not be forced to play along to such formal vulgarities, duty or not.

Ryna was so deep in thought that the nearby sound of a clearing throat startled her back to awareness. She turned sharply and could just barely make out the figure of a man leaning against the massive stone bricks of the castle wall behind her. Then her eyes caught the blinding billow of moonlit tresses and she knew it must be her uncle, Daemon, for no other Targaryen males yet had his height.

Daemon had returned from exile a year ago to attend to the funeral of his wife, Laena Velaryon, who had died in childbirth. Although to be more technically accurate, her dragon Vhagar had incinerated her once the baby would not come out. The end result was the same; Daemon widowed once again.

She had been closer with her uncle in the past, back before Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor, but her uncle had made himself scarce as of late. He spent much of his time away from King’s Landing, presumably finishing up his business in Pentos or simply behaving restlessly as Daemon was wont to do. Often she had observed his comings and goings from a distance by the sight and screech of Caraxes in the sky outside her window.

Daemon stepped forth from the shadows and approached her, yet halted at a pace’s length, his eyes roving up and down her form in keen appraisal.

He leaned in closely, his eyes of violet hooded as he whispered in a velvety, ardent tone, “My you’ve grown, niece.” His closeness and the heat of his gaze caused her cheeks to flush, and she could not help but feel a flutter in her chest.

For a moment, Ryna just stood there incredulously, unable to think of how to respond. He had never shown any interest in her before, no matter how much she had desired it. Daemon had only ever had eyes for Rhaenyra it seemed, and Ryna had always remained a child in his eyes. She had honestly forgotten those long lost unrequited desires until his simple greeting brought them all rushing back like a wave breaking hard as the tide comes in.

“Uncle,” she acknowledged him, yet scarce a word could she find in answer to his bold suggestion.

“Such beauty should never be sullied with a frown,” he continued, his demeanor charming without effort as he brushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Tell Uncle what is troubling you.”

His inquiry proved to be somewhat of a balm to her tensions, providing a welcome transition into a topic she could put words to.

“Father has given me ultimatum to choose a husband lest he choose one for me,” she pouted, her lips pursing and her eyes sullen.

“Surely it cannot be so grim, sweetling,” he reassured her smoothly and she now saw he was holding a silver chalice adorned with the the three-headed dragon, likely filled with wine. “I imagine you’d have your pick of many fine and wealthy lords.”

“I’m afraid the selection is quite lacking,” Ryna scoffed gently, feeling a fondness stir as she recalled the old pet name he’d given her in many years past. It had been some time since she had heard him utter the word, but the fact that it sounded so well when spoken by him did not escape her notice.

Daemon quickly turned her around by the shoulder, then with a firm yet gentle hand placed against the small of her back, he led her towards the balustrade. His hand remained steadfast even as they halted, and Ryna shivered involuntarily at the feel of his fingers tracing the fabric of her gown with a tender and possessive touch.

“Let me guess,” he relished with sardonic glee. “Some old and fat oaf of a lord… No doubt a widower with a dozen children?”

“That and much worse,” she scowled thinking of all of the potential suitors that had approached her father for her hand. “A Lannister so full of himself that is makes my skin crawl to think of his paws upon me.”

An easy laugh escaped Daemon’s mouth and she thought with a wry smile that many must share her disgust for the lions.

“Ah, Lannisters. What a bunch of cunts,” he chuckled condescendingly, stealing a wanton glance down her bodice. “And the rest? Are there none suitable, niece?”

Ryna pondered the question, but could not think of a single man that had caught her attention. Except for Daemon of course, but that had never been a real option, especially after his transgressions with Rhaenyra some years back. Father had tried to keep it secret, but she’d crept into the throne room upon hearing his furious yelling and had heard the entire ordeal take place between the brothers.

Even still, she could not imagine marrying anyone of plain blood. In fact, it repulsed her to think that Father would ever marry a Hightower without an ounce of Valyrian heritage. And even though her brothers were technically half Targaryen, they were both young, and while Aemond seemed sweet, Aegon was a reprehensible human being.

The answer it seemed was simple after all. “No,” she replied curtly with a rueful sigh. “There are none who please me… But, I fear Father will not be thwarted this time. He will not permit me to celebrate my twentieth nameday without a husband.”

She glanced over at her uncle and took in the almost ethereal way his pale skin glowed in the moonlight. He hadn’t changed at all, like an ageless god from the legends she’d so loved as a girl. His hair swayed against his shoulder in the slight breeze as he took a sip from his cup.

“Ah yes, sweetling, It would seem your father has you in quite the bind,” he said matching her somber tone. “No doubt he believes that time is running short. That you must fulfill your duty to the family and start producing heirs before you get much older.”

“He has been patient with me. Rhaenyra shirked her duty at first, but still acquiesced to marry at seven and ten years, but I… Well, they will be calling me an old maid soon.” She hung her head down, feeling ashamed for the way she’d behaved towards her father. He had meant well for her after all, and Ryna had done nothing but rebuke him as reward for years of lax freedom.

Daemon removed his hand from her back, sliding it gently up her arm until it came to rest below her chin. He tipped her jaw up to meet his face and she was met with a kind smile.

“Do not ever lower your head, sweetling. You are a dragon,” he said warmly, letting go so that he could sit against the stone wall beneath the balustrade. “Now, perhaps we can solve this little problem.. What would make a suitor worthy of your hand in marriage?”

She felt a hot wave of embarrassment rise within her, for she knew well the answer that rested upon her tongue, yet dared not speak the words aloud. Surely, Father would never let her have him even if she begged on her knees. Even so, Ryna didn’t see the point in lying completely. She would be honest about the qualities she sought in a partner, even if not being direct about the person whom she had in mind.

“It is important to me that my offspring remain pure. I do not wish to mix with those who are laden to the ground. That doesn’t leave me with many options,” she spoke softly, her head tilting up towards her uncle as she finished.

There was an intrigued sparkle in Daemon’s eyes as he comprehended her words and a smile wove its way across his face. “A dragon’s clutch should remain undiluted and pure, I agree. The blood of Old Valyria is powerful and should be preserved.” He hummed in approval as he wrapped his free hand around her waist and pulled her a touch closer. She gasped softly, unaccustomed to being so close to him.

“Tell me, little dragon. Have you never considered your uncle as a match before?” Daemon’s words cut like his sword, Dark Sister, through the cool night air.

Ryna’s lips parted as if to speak, unsure of how to proceed. He had taken the bait she’d unintentionally laid out and given he suggested it himself, the prince must be partial to the idea. But, Daemon was an enigma and she found it difficult to gage his intentions at all times.

“I have,” she said concisely. “It is the only obvious choice when it comes to such aims, but… It is… complicated.”

She saw his eyes flare, brow rising in challenge as he gripped more tightly around her waist. He placed his chalice down on the stone and drew her even closer to him. His knee wedged between her skirts to rest between her legs and her breast was now pressing indecently against his chest. It was not a position she was familiar to enduring. Ryna knew she should pull away, but Daemon had lulled her into compliance like a Dragonkeeper.

“Oh? And why is it so complicated, sweetling?” he asked with a smug grin and mock concern as he looked down at her.

Her uncle’s words snapped her out of it. How could he feign ignorance to the current situation?

“After your,” she began but found her mouth grow exceptionally dry after only two words. She turned her head to the side and brought her hand to her lips, clearing her throat before she continued. “After your exploits with Rhaenyra, Uncle… I doubt Father would consider letting us wed.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with the mention of Rhaenyra. “Ah yes, that little indiscretion.” He said with an air of indifference that turned into an irritated smirk. “What do you know of it?”

“I overheard the two of you in the Great Hall that day. Father’s booming voice drew me in and then I stayed once I saw you lying on the floor with guards on either side. I was worried for you, but then I heard Father’s words. That you had taken Rhaenyra’s purity in some brothel… And you did not deny it.” The memory was not a fond one for Ryna. She could remember the inebriated state he’d been in as he asked her father for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage as a result of their transgression.

“No, I did not deny it. And I did not confirm it either,” his voice was harder than usual, sterner as though upset by her knowledge of what transpired that day. “In all truth, I didn’t do much. I merely took her to a decent establishment to show her the reality of life outside the castle.”

“If you did not sully her virture, then why would you not refute such slanderous claims made against you, Uncle? Why accept exile for it… Again?” she asked furrowing her eyebrows, her hands with a mind of their own coming to rest on his shoulders.

He chuffed like a dragon, the only aspect missing was perhaps smoke escaping from his nostrils. “Why would I deny it? What would be the point?” his words were gruff. “What could I have said to convince your father that Rhaenyra was still untouched? Was I supposed to prostrate myself before him as a loyal dog to prove it?”

“You were already at his feet. Why not tell him the truth? Unless you hoped only to make him believe you besmirched her honor, just so you might wed her and recover your claim to the throne,” there was a certain amount of hurt in her voice as well as misgiving.

Ryna had never spoken to her uncle in this manner, or anyone so far her elder for that matter. But, part of her felt scorned, wronged for how much stock he had placed in Rhaenyra instead of her. She had to know what his true motivations had been and what he was capable of carrying out in order to get what he desired.

“You are treading on thin ice, little girl,” he voiced dangerously as his grip on her hips tightened. “How dare you make me out to be some incorrigible fiend. If anyone has been wronged in this whole… ordeal it has been me.”

His knee shifted a bit higher between her legs as he pulled her hips forward onto his lap, his thigh pressed firmly against her center. She whined faintly with the force of it, even through the layers of her skirts it made her core throb with unknown want.

“Iksos bona skoros ao pendagon hen issa?” he resumed in a more measured tone, his voice lower now. Is that what you think of me?- “That I only wanted Rhaenyra for the throne?”

His hands slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. Ryna’s lips pressed against the leather of his collar as he whispered in her ear, “Or do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

Was she so transparent? The very thought of him reading her so accurately made her feel about as obvious as the sun is bright. Despite Daemon’s embarrassing insinuation, it was impossible to think whilst being held in such close proximity to him. She attempted to regain her composure, but his hot breath against her ear and the way he dug into her heat with his knee was driving her mad.

“And what if I was?” she finally blurted out. “You never once glanced my way, not like you did her. I do not wish to be second best even to my own husband.” Ryna tried to make distance, attempting to push away from his chest.

Daemon wouldn’t allow it. His grip was strong and possessive, making it clear that he was not willing to let her go just yet.

“Who said you would be second best?” his words spilled out gravely, sweet, yet viscous as they fell from his lips. “Have you so easily forgotten how I used to dote on you? How I called you my little sweetling? Do you not remember how I would let you ride with me on Caraxes before you claimed your own beast?”

Ryna was taken aback by his perception of the past, not realizing that her uncle had remembered her so fondly. Perhaps she had spent too much time dwelling on inconsequential matters. She peered up at Daemon as he held her forearms tightly in front of his chest. The matter of Rhaenyra was still of some concern, but clearly she was mistaken about a great deal.

“Yes, Uncle, I do recall. And that is what made my envy all the more dire when you attempted to pursue my sister, barely noticing me as I tried to bid you welcome home. I felt you had forsaken me in favor of her.” She didn’t feel obligated to mention how desperately lonely she had felt when he was sent away once again, nor the deep sense of heartache she had experienced upon hearing about his wedding to Laena.

Dameon’s grip on her lessened and the softness now present in his features made her feel a little more relaxed. His hands caressed up her back once more as he sat down on the stone parapet and brought her fully onto his lap. Ryna’s dress protested, the skirts fighting as he pulled her knees forward to straddle him. It was an obscene, intimate position for a young maiden, but she couldn’t help be reminded of better times when she found great comfort in that same lap.

“Your envy?” he mused almost sympathetically. “Have you been pining away for me all of this time, sweetling?”

“No,” she answered abruptly, feeling the hot sting of mortification as he continued to reveal the inner yearnings of her heart.

He let out a deep, hearty chuckle as he brought a hand to her face. Long fingers traced the outline of her cheek before wrapping around her chin. She had forgotten the contentment of his affections even though the way she recieved them had been altered now that she was grown.

“No?” he echoed with mock disbelief.” He gently gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at only him as he spoke harshly. “Do not attempt to deceive me, niece. You could never tell-tale when you were young, and you still lack the talent.”

Daemon’s hand released her chin, sliding it down to rest against the base of her throat. “You forget I can see right through you… I know what you’re really thinking.”

“What am I thinking then?” Her voice was not haughty, but tinged with awe as his rakish wiles seduced her into calm once more.

“You’re thinking…” he paused, bringing his hand to brush a strand of hair from her face before caressing her cheek. “You’re thinking that you would welcome my touch further. You’d welcome my affections. My attention.”

His hand slipped further down, sliding along the neckline of her bodice he drew a finger against the top of her breast. “You’d welcome more than that. You want so much more than that. No matter how you pretend otherwise.”

Ryna’s breath stuttered out disjointedly, her chest heaving not just from his capricious words, but the unfamiliar touch of his hand at the swell of her breast. It was not at all unpleasant, but it was unseemly. The sounds of the banquet carried on from inside, but nobody had disturbed their solitude yet. She would venture an allowance, just this once.

“And what do you want, Uncle?” Ryna gazed at him, entranced at being the object of his focus after having been starved of it for so long.

As Daemon looked into her eyes, his expression darkened with what appeared to be lust and longing. His palm lowered over the curve of her breast, cupping her soft mound gently as he leaned his forehead against hers. A low whimper struck against Ryna’s closed mouth as his fingers grazed lightly down her bust, traveling over her ribcage and then rounding to her hips.

“Nyke jaelagon ao, jorrāelagon mēre,” he purred deeply. I want you, dear one- His lips brushed against hers as though trying to lure them open. “I’ve always wanted you, but thought it too wicked, even for the likes of me, to tarnish you with my degeneracy.”

His hands slid around to the small of her back, pulling her closer with a satisfied grunt. “But, now that I know you’ve been hungering for me, sweetling, I’m beginning to think… that you’ve always been mine. That I’ve wasted so much time hiding from the truth.”

She could feel the heat of his breath upon her face, coaxing her so enticingly into his thrall. Her lips parted to release a quiet breath, but before the air had fully escaped her mouth, Daemon sealed them with a kiss. Even though she had never kissed a man, she was consumed by his fiery passion. She closed her eyes, her fingers wrapping around his back as she whispered hushed, sultry mewls against his lips.

His tongue swept her lower lip, teasing at her mouth until she yielded to him and allowed entrance. The kiss was urgent and demanding, filled with untold desire she’d only read about in old tales of Valyrian mythology. One of Daemon’s hands roamed to the exposed skin at her right knee, bunching the fabric up higher and groaning as his fingers felt the bare skin of her thighs. His lips tasted of Westerosi strongwine and spices, his tongue plundering her mouth as though it were an indulgent ambrosia all its own.

“I should stop before I go too far, sweetling,” he groaned, tearing his mouth away as he regarded her. “I don’t want to ruin you out here in the open… Or at least I do not wish to get caught doing so.” A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, but the yearning was still present in his eyes.

Ryna fussed at the loss of his sweet kiss, an aching throb now coursing throughout her entire core. Lost in the affections she’d always wanted, she could not possibly think to stop now.

“No, please,” she pleaded without meaning to. The words were barely a soft gasp against his neck as her lips found the pulse of his throat and pressed a gentle kiss to it.

Daemon chuckled at her protestations, leaning his forehead against hers again. It was a simple gesture he had always used in the past to ease her distress, although there was an entirely new meaning to it now, it still made her feel at peace in much the same way.

“What will people say if they see us?” he whispered with feigned anxiety, his hot breath skimming against her dampened lips. “A wicked prince spoiling a young innocent maiden with his turpitude. What sort of debauchery is this?”

Her uncle’s words were laced with a sense of mockery, but she knew he spoke true. She sighed and kissed him once more, making sure to keep it brief lest she become unable to refrain from continuing. Ryna slipped off his lap, feeling her senses slowly return to her. She glanced at the glowing light coming from the hall and exhaled with relief when there was nobody present to see their misconduct.

She smoothed her skirts so that they were not so unkempt and tucked away any loose strands of hair back against her scalp. Daemon took his time in rising from his seat on the parapet, adjusting the front of his trousers slightly as he did so.

“You should return to the party,” his voice was rough with lust and did not sound pleased by the prospect. “At least for now we should keep up appearances. For now…”

“And what of our earlier conversation?” she asked almost demurely, with a submissive tone she was not frequently used to employing. “What of Father’s ultimatum?”

Daemon took a few steps forward, crowding into her as he rested his hands firmly at her waist. “I won’t suffer any suitor but myself to claim you,” he hissed possessively. “Especially not some timid lordling whose ineptitude would bring your heart naught but bitterness, my sweetling.”

Ryna couldn’t help but smile with the ornery way he insisted no other man should wed her, but it would still be difficult to convince Father to allow it.

“How shall we persuade my father that you are worthy than, Uncle?” she peered up at him, her fingers gently clutching the sleeves of his doublet.

“Worthy,” Daemon said with a scoff. “I have the blood of Old Valyria. I am the Prince of the City. I am a dragon, little niece.” He let his hands slide around to her back, gripping her hips greedily. With a swift tug, he yanked her flush against his chest and whispered quietly in her ear. “Name another who is more worthy?”

Gods, he was too good at this. With barely his low trill in her ear, Ryna’s knees felt weak.

“I do not question your value, Daemon. There is no better match in my eyes,” she placed her small hands on his chest and pushed him back so she might look upon him face to face. “But I fear Father will think the worst of your intentions.”

He let out a gruff chuckle at that, a knowing smile spreading wickedly as he tilted his head. “Intentions?” he mused with thick sarcasm. “Yes, how horrible it would be to bed, wed, and impregnate his sweet innocent darling daughter. I’m sure the thought of the latter will be a dagger to his heart.”

“I am speaking in all earnestness, Uncle,” she ruffled, her lower lip pouting out at his jest. “He will think you wish to claim the throne by way of wedding me.”

Daemon chuffed, clearly amused by her petulant scolding. “So, my brother thinks me a scheming opportunist, does he?” With a shrug he dismissed the notion, yet added, “Well, he isn’t wrong.”

A wolfish smirk pulled at his lips as he leaned his head down to her ear once more. “Although, if the throne comes to me as a result of seeding your belly with my babe, my sweet niece, then I certainly won’t complain.”

“You are awful…” she scoffed with disbelief, making space between them again. “How can you not take this seriously? I don’t want you to be sent away again. You know you should renounce any claim to the throne.” Her pale lilac eyes grew wide, peering at him with thinly veiled worry and beginning to gleam as tears threatened to come.

He clenched his jaw at the mention of relinquishing the Iron Throne. “Daor. Nyke jāhor daor,” he growled. No. I will not.- “Do not ask me to lie down like a whipped dog. And do not bring tears to your eyes in an attempt to soften me.” Daemon’s eyes remained cold as they narrowed at her, the fondness all but gone from his voice as he continued.

“I have spent my entire life living to the expectations of others. I will follow the path I know I am destined for.” He gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him and meet his gaze. “I will claim what is mine by right, and you will be a part of it whether you wish it or not, little niece.”

Ryna attempted to speak, but he stopped her by placing a single finger over her lips.

“You have made it clear that you are mine. You will do as I say. You will wed me and stand at my side when I ascend to the throne. Those are the only outcomes I will accept,” he ordered sternly. “And to ensure it, I will have to use any means necessary. If that includes ruining your innocence to ensure you do not wed another… So be it.”

There was a palpable tension in the air between them. She wished to have the sweet man she had shared her first kiss with back and not the tyrant that stood before her. But, Ryna understood his ambitions, just as everyone in their family did. She knew she had touched upon a sensitive subject, perhaps too insistently, and now regretted digging into a wound that ran exceptionally deep.

Most distressing of all, was that she believed his purpose to be true, even though the thought of what lengths he might have to go to achieve it sometimes haunted her. Now, he might not even trust that she had any faith in him or his calling at all.

“I am grieved,” she replied with a quiet whisper. “I did not mean to say that you should not seek the throne, Uncle, but use it as pretense so that Father lets his guard down. He knows you want it and he does not wish you to have it.”

The truth of it was that between Rhaenyra’s bastards and the Hightower half-blood mongrels, the pairing she’d make together with Daemon would have the strongest claim to the throne. If something were to happen to Rhaenyra, the throne would pass to Ryna, but the realm was still not wont to have even a Targaryen Queen rule over it. If she wed Daemon though, then there would be no question of a higher authority. She had no desire to rule and would pass it to her uncle gladly.

His grip on her chin faltered, the anger leaving his voice and replaced by a tired sigh. “My sweetling, you know not how difficult it has been for me to restrain myself for all these years. You have grown more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” He spoke low and deliberate as he gently brushed along the line of her jaw. “It was a challenge unto itself, not to ravish you the moment you became a woman, but I was certain your father would geld me for it.”

She could not help but laugh at his admission, although Father had certainly not opted to castrate her uncle for his supposed transgression with Rhaenyra.

“You laugh but only I know how it felt to resist you day after day, year after year,” he growled, voice husky with need. “I was tempted on so many occassions to claim you as my own, to steal you away to Dragonstone and keep you there.”

He leaned closer, burying his nose in her platinum tresses and inhaling deeply of her scent. “And now you’ve left yourself vulnerable, sweetling. Now that I know you want me as much as I desire you… There is nothing that can keep me away.”

“Not even the King,” he added with a huff, his lips moving to trail the smooth skin along her neckline.

She was not sure how to reply to such conviction, especially when it concerned her father. Ryna did not wish ill of him, but then she was sure Daemon would not hurt his own brother. Well, mostly certain at least.

Daemon must have sensed her hesitation, for he murmured softly against her temple. “Let me handle your father, my sweet little niece… Just focus on being my good girl, alright?” His grip was firm, but tender on her shoulders as he pushed himself away from her. “Now, you must head back, before anyone comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Viserys hasn’t had the servants upturning the keep for you by now,” he chuckled wryly and pressed a kiss against her forehead before disengaging from her completely.

As he released her, Ryna suddenly felt an unbearable emptiness. His lips left her skin feeling warm and wanting more, but he was already taking steps away from her, retrieving his chalice from the surface of the parapet. The tone of his voice told her he would brook no disagreement in this and she knew it would be for the best that she return.

“Return to the celebration, sweetling,” he said with his back to her as he looked out over the city. “And do not worry your pretty little mind of all this. I will take care of your father. You have my word.”

Ryna had so wished to ask him if he would dance with her this evening, but soon realized something as she turned and headed back inside. That once they were wed there would be a week-long celebration and she would have as many chances to dance with her uncle as she liked.

She paused for a moment as she stood in the flickering shadows of the hallway that led back to the Great Hall. Ryna had seen it clear as day when she was only but ten and two years old. She did not understand what it meant, but had spent weeks combing the library for information trying to understand it with no answers to be found.

She’d had a strange daydream or perhaps a vision. In it, Ryna had seen a beautiful young woman with flowing silver-gold hair standing beside her uncle Daemon as he sat upon the Iron Throne.

It had befuddled her for years until finally she began to mature, her skinny, tomboyish body blossoming outwards like the petals of a flower. And, one day she looked in her hand mirror and realized that the woman she’d seen, was none other than herself.

It did naught but break her heart when she then found out that his affections, nay his ambitions, laid with Rhaenyra. And, she’d forced herself to tuck that long lost song of what might come to pass away, when she heard Laena gave birth to twins. Ryna locked it all tightly, somewhere she might never think of it again.

And yet now, it might all be coming to pass regardless. She didn’t know whether she should be excited or aghast at what might happen in the coming months.

She stepped into the Great Hall and was pleased to see that most every guest had imbibed much of her father’s generosity since her departure. Nobody seemed to take notice of her as she walked through the crowd aside from Ser Criston Cole who eyed her wearily. She cared little for the man, thinking him a miscreant since observing him beat a man to death at Rhaenyra’s wedding. Ryna wondered how it was he still held such an esteemed post regardless.

Heading right up to the King’s table, she was not surprised to see that most everyone had abandoned her father as they always tended to do once a banquet got underway. He sat alone in his chair without a soul to even pour his wine. Ryna lamented how lonely he appeared. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and here he sat deep in his drink and completely alone.

Father’s eyes brightened as he saw her, a slur in his voice, “Daughter! I was wondering where you ran off to. Come and pour your father another.”

“Do you think it wise, Father?” she asked with a playful tone, knowing he would not be denied despite her pestering.

“Your King demands it, girl,” he jested with a smile and she obediently filled his cup.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized, her voice demure and meek in an attempt to show him the deference he deserved, not just as her King, but as her forebear.

He waved a hand, scoffing as though it mattered not. “I should bid you apology, my child. For suggesting you dance with that Lannister fellow. He is truly insufferable.” Father’s eyes grew wide with joy as he let out a boisterous laugh and she could not help but join in the royal ribbing of Jason Lannister.

“But you still must choose a husband, Ryna,” he said somberly, the mirth still poking at the edge of his words.

“I know,” she replied with a smile, trying to show her appreciation for the years of independence he’d allowed her. “I will perform my duty for you and the realm, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Disobedience never suited you,” he took a long swig from his ornate chalice. “Besides, I have all that I can handle of that with Rhaenyra,” he quipped with a chuckle and quick raise of his brow. “Now leave me, child. I have wont to pass swiftly from drink to slumber tonight.”

“Good evening, Father,” she bowed her head to him slightly and turned to give him the space he desired.

She glanced around the hall looking for a certain blond uncle, but did not catch sight of him. Perhaps he was being cautious by not being seen together with her in front of the masses gathered for the celebration. It was an intelligent idea that she thought she would abide by as well for now. After all, she’d had enough excitement for one night.

Ryna nodded at several lords and ladies she know of, but barely knew as she retired from the banquet hall. The path to her chambers was quiet and uneventful and after minimal effort undressing, she soon found herself comfortably lying in her bed, ensconced in plush blankets.

Thoughts swirled of the moments she’d shared with Daemon on the balcony. Ryna could still taste him upon her lips and feel his hands upon her body. As though attempting to reprise the memory, she ran her fingers gently over her breast in much the same way he had. It was too much to bear. She clenched her thighs together and turned harshly on her side with a squeal of flustered arousal.

She tried to clear her mind of lustful thoughts and peered out the window at the high moon. Would Daemon be able to convince Father that he would be a worthy suitor? Truly there was no better man in terms of Valyrian descent, but her father had been so angry with her uncle, so many times over the years. She worried he might not be able to let it go.

Given all that had occurred and the pressing marital matters at hand, she’d thought it might be difficult to sleep, but surprisingly it found her quickly.

Notes: This was the longest chapter I have ever written! I could not stop - a woman possessed!

So, I know this is not entirely necessary, but I thought I would write up a little post-chapter introduction to explain some of the setting I’ve chosen for this story.. And why I decided to make these choices.

I wanted the OC to be young, but not too young as it wouldn’t make sense that she would remain unmarried if allowed to get too old. I also did not want such a huge gap of time to pass after Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding. Ten years is such a huge amount of time, and I wanted the OC to have been within a comparable age to Rhaenyra when she last sees Daemon.

Now, with that in mind, the timeline of the show is also very confusing when you compare it against the timelines on the wiki, which is based on lore. There is an understanding of an approximate amount of time that has gone by on the show, but even when using those estimations, the years don’t come close to the dates on the wiki. I know I shouldn’t focus on such trivial matters, but it did in fact bother me while planning my own outline. I decided that I would base it more loosely off the official lore dates of events and ages of characters, and not the show's. This is something you may or may not notice, but it is worth mentioning. Any changes made are not necessarily for lack of being informed about it, they are just conscious changes.

One glaring issue is the birth of Rhaenyra’s first three children.. All of which are born in pretty quick succession, 115 AC, 116, AC and then 117 AC. That means that technically, this fic should be starting in 117 AC.. Only 4 years after the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor (114AC). And Baela and Rhaena were born in 116 AC, which certainly causes some difficulty in lining these dates up with the show. Laena dies in 120 AC and yet her children look much older than 4 and the same can be said for Rhaenyra’s as well.

So, I’ve decided after much deliberation, that Joffrey’s birth will take place in 119AC instead of 117AC, meaning that instead of 10 years, only about 5 years have passed since the wedding. And Laena’s death will be moved to 118AC, 2 years earlier than in the lore, and much earlier in the show. I think if you add the time skips together.. That the (10 years later) jump that occurs ends up being about 126AC which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, except for the fact that they’re likely trying to line things up for the Dance of the Dragons, but the timing still feels off.

I also wanted to say that I had several starting points in mind for this story, but this was the one I just happened to like the most in terms of the timeline and how close it is to Viserys’ death and all the major events that take place afterwards! So please enjoy, and I do hope I can capture the tone and feel of the show and characters without stepping on my own feet too much. I have never attempted to write a story in this time period or style, so I guess we’ll see how it goes. Expect some growing pains until I’m more practiced and do not judge me too harshly.

Another thing worth mentioning is that I wrote the first chapter in a rather obsessive flurry that lasted most of one day and all of a night. Suffice it to say, it slipped my mind to add in the High Valyrian, given how much I had my hands full with grasping a more Shakespearean take on English. I will likely add placeholder Valyrian in, so that it does not hold me up too much as I write. When finished, I’ll take the time to research how to make it more accurate. So don’t worry too much if you do happen to know High Valyrian and find any glaring errors.

But! Please DO tell me what you thought! Also.. Yes, there will be a lot more. This is planned to be a rather big story... Read Chapter 2 here.

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chronic-escapixt · 4 months

Text

His Rose ~ Part 5

(Kai Parker x Bennett OC fanfiction)

content warnings/tags ~ Dark fiction, murder, abuse, trauma, angst, self-harm, manipulation, dubcon, CNC, smut, edging, degradation, overstim, squirting, bondage, oral (f/m receiving), rough sex, age gap, unhealthy!dom/sub dynamics. Minors DNI

I don't claim ownership of The Vampire Diaries or its characters. All credits go to the rightful owner(s). I only own my original character(s).

Word count: 4.5k

K.P. Masterlist

A chill crept up her spine, not unlike when she first arrived at the house. Kai’s presence always comforts her when she feels unease, but now that she was alone the silence was eerie, like the house itself was waiting to unleash its hidden secrets.

Kai left to run some errands while Rose prepared dinner. Once the roast was in the oven, she was left with only her thoughts and a burning curiosity so she wanted to do some exploring of her own to pass the time.

She wandered the empty halls. At the very end of the upper corridor was a door unlike the others, slightly tucked away into a dimly lit corner, half shadowed. The closer she got, the more she noticed how unique it was with its old peeling white paint and rusted hinges.

She glanced down at the padlock before giving the door a brief shake just to confirm that it was locked, making her all the more suspicious of what was being kept on the other side.

The kitchen alarm blared downstairs, it was time to check the roast but she was in no rush. It was cooking in the oven - low and slow - and still needed at least two more hours anyway. Besides, the alarms in her head were much louder, urging her forward. Still she indecisively chewed at the inner flesh of her cheek while contemplating turning back - spending her time in any other way - but her nosiness won out. There was no actual threat because it was just her and Kai but she knew if Bonnie were there, she’d tell her to follow her gut. Instincts had never steared a Bennett wrong before. right?

She closed her eyes with her hand outstretched toward the door and focused on the padlock as she uttered the chant, motus.

The lock burst in half with a loud pop, making her jump - always surprising herself with her own abilities. It appears her lessons with Kai are paying off.

She kicked aside the metal and slowly opened up to a narrow staircase. Each step offered a foreboding creak as she continued her careful ascent until reaching the attic. It was dark but she could feel how cramped the space was. Still she managed, barely making out the pull chain hanging from the exposed lightbulb on the ceiling. It illuminated the room with a dull amber light that flickered at first.

The attic looked like the scene of a crime. Debris and glass crunched under her sneakers as she walked. The cramped space filled with broken furniture strewn across the floor, a pile of sheets beside a bare mattress and posters torn from the walls. There was a small room off the side of the main space that she thought was a closet but upon closer inspection was a bathroom.

The space appeared to be somewhat habitable, as if the attic wasn’t just for storage.

Someone lived up here. The thought made her stomach turn.

The only direct access to natural light was a small circular window with only a thin slit between a pair of wooden boards nailed into place. Even before whatever rampage happened up here, it couldn’t have been a pleasant stay for its host with its splintered wood floors and low ceilings.

She gazed up at a half torn poster of Pamela Anderson in her iconic red one-piece in front of the lifeguard tower. The bottom half was torn clean off and what remained hung diagonally from a singular push pin. Kai loved Baywatch, so it immediately reminded her of him. He was always talking about his favorite TV shows, classics to her, like Baywatch, the Simpsons and Ren & Stimpy.

Over on the desk, she found a small polaroid, carefully picking it up so as not to cut her hand on the small shards of glass scattered over it.

It was Kai with his arm around a thin girl with very fair skin and cropped dark hair. She gave a slight grin into the camera, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was odd.

Rose flipped it over and read the message on the back.

From Mel, 1994

-Don’t lose hope.

She placed it down with a shaky breath as the questions mounted in her mind. Kai wasn’t very open about his past, often avoiding intimate details all together and becoming distant when she even slightly pressed. If this was his home, she now saw why he wasn’t forthcoming. This was… disturbing.

Across the room was a lopsided tapestry but she looked closer and noticed what was underneath it. Moving the tapestry aside uncovered hundreds of little lines etched into the wall with what appeared to be a blade, marks like tally’s on a cell wall - counting down each day of a prisoner’s sentence.

A lump formed in her throat when she bent down. What looked to be Malachai was crossed out with deep haphazard cuts. Abomination carved several times in a row then black sheep, defective closely followed by a word that was etched out so deeply she couldn't make it out. Her heart sank as she touched it, feeling his raw anguish in the jagged edges of each line.

“What are you doing?” the sound of his voice sliced through her thoughts.

She spun around to him - his brows knit harshly over his narrowed eyes. He looked right through her, staring at the wall.

“I was just walking around and I.. ” her words fell off as he brushed past her and took hold of the tapestry. His jaw ticked tightly and the blood rose to his ears as he stressed the tapestry to cover the wall, as if it could erase what she’d already seen.

“Kai—"

He huffed and shrugged her off, not even looking back to acknowledge her. His withdrawn behavior concerningly unfamiliar to her.

"Get out. Now." he muttered.

“Can we talk for a minute?” She tried to be firm, but her words came out waveringly. His mind seemed trapped in a place she couldn’t reach, her voice echoing around him but not penetrating and that scared her. She was desperate to pull him back.

She closed the space between them. “Kai, it’s going to be okay.”

But, it wasn’t.

Each mark was a reminder of each day he spent confined on his own. No matter what he did the carvings peaked out, taunting him like an unavoidable reminder of his past, his weakness she now knew about. He lost control of the narrative nd that loss made him frantic.

For one last desperate attempt, he gave the tapestry a hard yank from the bottom and it gave, entirely ripping through the rusted nail and falling at his feet in a heap.

“GODDAMMIT!” he raged, tearing erratically at it until it came apart in scraps.

“Kai, stop! Stop it!” She tried to grab him, but he whirled around so fast, she flung into the dresser.

“I said GET OUT! What part of that don’t you understand!” he shouted.

Her words caught in her throat. She rubbed her arm and took hesitant steps back, stalling momentarily for him to calm down, change his mind, perhaps open up but all he offered was a cold dismissive glower before turning his back and balling the tapestry into tight fists. She dashed down the stairs to her room and slammed the door.

Rose sank to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, replaying the last few minutes in her head. She was left with more questions than she ever had before and a painful gnawing in her chest.

“fuck. fuck. fuck,” Kai went into a full blown panic, raking his hands through his hair and yanking impulsively before dragging them down his face. He cursed himself for not wiping the room clean like he did the rest of the house, all the family photos, albums and heirlooms he could get his hands on were burned in a symbolic fire in the pit in the woods behind the house, save the ascendant. As for the attic, he just put the lock on the door, hoping it would keep her out while allowing him to avoid the visual reminders of the most painful parts of his past. Now he had no idea what she saw.

Weeks of meticulous planning - years of waiting on an opportunity, gone - right down the drain!

It wasn’t completely hopeless, he reminded himself.

There was always plan B.

But that was a lot messier.

He could salvage this. He just needed to think. There wasn’t enough room to pace, not even to breathe once the walls began to suffocate him like they used to. He froze for a moment before he remembered he was free to leave so he did.

Kai was sitting on the porch swing, toying with his little pine cone that he collected on his walk. The sun was setting low when she found him. Rose opened the screen door and sat down. Not a word passed between them for the first few minutes, both unsure of what to say until she spoke up.

“I’m so sorry, Kai.”

He gave a sore chuckle, finally looking up. “You’re apologizing? I’m the one who messed up. I shouldn’t have freaked out on you… it’s just- I promised myself a long time ago that I’d never go up there again.”

“You never told me this was your family home—”

“—coven,” he interrupted shortly, “They were never a family to me.” His gaze went hard and distant.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He heaved a sigh, “I didn’t want to scare you. You saw what it’s like up there, and that’s just the beginning. You can’t put a pretty bow on my past, so I figured it was better to leave out the grim details.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I know how ugly the truth can be sometimes. My mom kept my witch side from me my entire life and when she finally told me the truth I hated her for it, but once the cat was out of the bag, I realized quickly that being a witch meant I’d have to grow up really fast and lose the people I’ve always had by my side. I guess what I’m saying is I understand where you’re coming from, but I wish you’d understand that you don’t have to hide from me. I know it's hard, but I want to know you, the real you,” she spoke earnestly, offering a comforting nudge of her foot.

Kai paused a moment before turning to her, “I was cut off from my siblings so I wouldn’t hurt them with my ‘deformity’ or be a visual reminder to guests of my family’s disgrace. The lock was put on by my father. Sometimes I was left up there for days - sometimes weeks at a time, and I’d just listen to my siblings play or watch them from the window. He caught me watching once and boarded it up - I guess so I wouldn’t get any ideas..”

Her heart broke for him.

“I stole my dad’s hunting knife when I was like - 13 and I was going to kill myself that night, but I wouldn’t bring myself to do it… so I started carving the wall.. and my skin.”

He turned his palm upwards and moved his layered bracelets to reveal the dull scars on the otherwise smooth skin along his wrist.

“I’m not crazy, but after being up there for so long, I couldn’t even feel time passing anymore. I couldn’t feel anything.. and the pain made me feel.. Something.” His voice faltered.

He noticed her eyes threatening to spill over from his words.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.. baby, no. It’s just - I had no idea.”

She reached out to him, finally giving in to the mounting need to hold him close.

He melted into her touch. They stay this way for a minute until she felt his breathing steady. She pulled away to make sure he saw her eyes when she said, “You’re not crazy, you’re not defective, and you’re not an abomination.”

He sighed and she cupped his cheeks, “Kai, you can tell me anything, understand? You’re safe with me. There’s nothing you could tell me that could scare me away.”

At this, he broke a smile but not for the reasons she would’ve thought. The irony was slightly comical in his demented mind. She still didn’t know the half of his dark history and her promise was one that he knew she wouldn’t keep when came down to it.

“No more secrets, okay? You have to promise me.”

He raised his pinky with a lighthearted grin, “I promise, no more secrets.”

“No more secrets,” she repeated, locking pinkies tightly.

They head inside to reheat and enjoy their dinner. After clearing his plate at least three times and making sure their leftovers wouldn’t last the week, he set the dishes in the washer while she put away what was left.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said after shutting the fridge.

“Shoot.”

She thought back to the photo she found earlier. “Who’s Mel?”

“My cousin. Mel was the only person in this house who didn’t hate me. We were actually kinda close.” He reminisced with a genuine smile.

Feelings are hard, a fact Kai knew all too well but never let himself dwell long enough on the past or the emotions that came with it. Everything was balled up and locked away in the tiny attic of his mind and - all except the anger. But his rage served a purpose, like a flame that fueled his undying vendetta to return to the world and take back what’s rightfully his. Kai could always anticipate a sort of cathartic satisfaction in the aftermath of his retaliation - and that was his favorite part.

He believed it to be easy to manipulate Rose as long as he kept fucking the thoughts out of her head - keep her compliant and blissfully ignorant - and it was all going to plan until she pulled a move he didn’t anticipate. Poking past locked doors, nearly ruining his plans decades in the making, forcing him to tread back through his memories up in that attic. A lifetime of buried trauma assaulted him all at once and for a moment his expertly curated mask fell right in front of her.

Luckily for him, he was able to spin the narrative in his favor, however pitiful it was, he was given the opportunity to show a sort of vulnerability that made the naive girl endear to him even more than before.

And now Rose held him close, offering a loving touch in the way her soft fingers caressed the nape of his neck up through his short tresses and back again, tugging ever so gently at the roots, a cycle that made him almost curl into her and purr with satisfaction. She knew how to soothe him and he hated that he loved it, but worst of all he hated the way she weakened him. His mind quietly churning with ways to punish her for it.

Playing nice was one thing but he drew the line at the cliched broken boyfriend that she heals with the power of love. The thought repulsed him. So he decided on a different route - risky, sure, but all the more satisfying. He’d make her pay for the trouble she caused and give her a taste of what he’s truly capable of.

“Do you wanna try something new tonight?”

Her hand paused in its ministrations. The question piqued her interest as she peered up into his stormy blues, blissfully unaware of the sadistic plot brewing behind them.

His smile reassured her.

“I do,” she replied.

“Is this okay?” He asked whilst he bound her wrists together with utility rope.

She swallowed, her chest trembling slightly with each exhale.

“..yes...”

“..You scared?”

“Not at all. I trust you.”

That was your first mistake.

He fastened her wrists tight before securing them around the middle slat of the headboard to keep from moving.

“Not even a little scared?” He teased with a grin.

She shook her head, trying not to show it but the anticipation made goosebumps prickle across her skin and arousal pool between her throbbing lips. This was her first time being fully restrained, feeling how tight the rope was with each experimental tug of her wrists.

He leaned down and kissed her hard.

God this is gonna be fun.

Kai pulled his shirt over his head, allowing her to drink in his lean torso. Abs carved all the way down to a defined v-line, a thin happy trail of dark hair that disappeared behind denim shorts. She doesn’t have long to appreciate the view before he dropped to sear hot kisses into her neck and collarbone, biting and sucking dutifully at the swell of each breast hard enough to litter them with fresh marks before soothing over the aching flesh with his tongue.

Her back arched when he sucked a perked bud between his lips. He reached down to give her pussy some attention. Stroking along the dimple between her swollen lips through the damp fabric.

“Aughh.. Kaiiii…” she whined, so consumed by her own neediness that the mistake slipped past her lips. But, it wasn’t lost on him and she became deeply aware of that when his fingers moved too close around her neck, jerking her up until they bumped noses.

“What did you just call me?” He growled. Her wide eyes picking up a hint of a scowl in his that made her pulse quicken.

“.. huh? .. ohhh no… m’ sorry..” She whimpered.

“You’re sorry… you’re sowry, huh?” He mocked cruelly.

Not yet you’re not.

“Yes… daddy.. I forgot.”

He caressed her cheek, a misleadingly tender gesture for what he had intended. “That's alright sweets, I’ll make sure you never forget again.”

The next second he was pulling off her panties and tossing them to an obscure corner of the room. She reeled when he started rubbing her bare clit - already pulsing, glistening, so worked up she could cum at any moment but he’s too precise, his tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on her response. Everytime she came close, he changed the pattern or stopped altogether.

“..Gahhhdd.. You’re teasing!” she bucked her hips in frustration, chasing his elusive fingers.

“Hush. You’ll cum when I say so,” he husked, punctuating his words with a harsh slap to her cunt, her lips stinging upon impact before he rubbed them in sloppy circles. She tenses before he smacks her again, her legs go taut and threaten to close on him but he’s too quick to grip her thigh and hold it open for him to slide a finger into her sopping hole. A second followed, then a third joined the others. Hardly waiting for her to adjust to his thick digits, taking his pleasure in making her stretch around half his hand as they pumped in and out of her.

She gasped and grimaced. The pain mixed with the pleasurable fullness of taking more of him than she ever had before, bringing her deliciously close as she curled forward to give into it.

filthy little slut, sucking my fingers in so deep.

He withdrew his digits completely as she sank back down with a groan.

“Pleaseee..” she uttered weakly.

He took to brush at her inner thigh, spreading her sticky arousal across supple trembling flesh, his eyes holding pity.

“Now, is that really the best you can do for me, babe? C’mon, if you really wanna cum that badly, you’ve gotta try harder than that.. beg me.” He shook his head, mindlessly rolling her puffy pearl.

“Nhmm! PLEASE..PLEASE.. PLEASE.. Daddy.. I-I- need- you- mm- please.. please.. p-please let me cum.. pleaseee..” Rose sobbed until her voice went hoarse.

Tears already? Poor fucking crybaby, so pathetic you’re actually drooling and begging me to let you cum.

Her desperate attempts to struggle nearly moved him to offer an ounce of mercy her way, but that wasn’t his style.

Kai groaned and sucked her clit while finger-fucking her molten core.

“FUCKKkk…”

His fingertips pumped through her spongey walls, creating the lewdest wettest sounds, setting a brutal pace that he doesn’t break. He felt her clench dangerously around him.

“daddyyy…pl-”

“Fucking cum for me, princess.. hhmm….. that’s it let it out, babe..” he talked her through it.

She obeyed, crying out as he held her tight through deep tremors, not at all halting his movements, her walls spasming around wet fingers that only seemed to speed up once lubricated in her milky release.

She spiraled a second time from a mixture of aftershock and his undying diligence.

“s’ too much.. i can’t..” she cried and struggled fruitlessly, the rope cut into her wrists until they’re raw.

His grip on her pelvis started to hurt, the stretch of his fingers burned as more tears streamed down her temples and cheeks. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to fight it, focusing on anything other than the merciless demon between her legs making her tense and clench around him.

“Open those pretty eyes, princess.” He slapped her cunt and laughed when she whimpered. He wasn’t letting her off that easy.

Her body restrained and spread out for him as he tormented her with one orgasm after another, her sweet desperation saturating his tongue, softening the path of his fingers. His warm blood flows to his cock, feeling painfully restrained behind his denim shorts.

Rose barely got a moment of relief when he pulled away before he bullied his cock into her, swallowing her moans in a savage kiss of clashing tongues, dominating her mouth before he sucks her lips and nips at her neck, kissing and licking the tears from her face as she held him like a vice, keening and squeezing him.

“Such a fuckin whore for me.. taking everything I give you.”

“I-I'm not a whore—” she gasped.

He shoved his thumb in her mouth to silence her.

“You’re my whore, my fucking cocksleeve and like a well trained little pet you’ll do whatever I tell you.. you’ll cum whenever I tell you.. hell - you’re gonna’ come right now, aren't you?” he finished with an animalistic grunt, growing sloppy.

He hooked her legs over his shoulders, rutting deeper when he looked down and noticed the taut skin of her belly rising slightly with each thrust. He explored with his fingers, pressing down on the little bulge as she whined, her nails digging into her wrists.

She could do nothing but collapse into the next wave, mouth falling open, core gushing and a thin spray of slick coating his lower torso.

“.. d’ you just squirt?.. ts’ so fucking hot..” He exhaled, rubbing her bud until she gasped and a light sprinkle joined the others on the damp sheets.

That was her first time and she hungered for more, pure ecstasy took over as her body fully submits to his.

She gave an appreciative smile before sucking his finger and earning an approving hum.

“My girl..”

She swelled with pride. lids hooded in a cockdrunk stupor.

The last of her strength gave out with one final detonation. Her eyes rolled back and her head lulled to the side.

Oh shit.

He made her lose consciousness - wrists melting into the rope from her dead weight. He didn’t get to cum before untieing her, having to end their oh-so satisfying torture session right when it was getting good but it was worth it just to watch her writhe.

Her eyes fluttered open. His hands take care to rub the aching skin of her wrists in small circles.

“You’re okay? Took it too far, huh?” He purposely softened his eyes.

She leaned up to kiss him, a brief smooch so she get back to staring at him in all his glory. Despite all he gave her, all she could think about was more.

Her eyes locked onto his member, stiff and flushed with need.

“you didn’t cum?” She pouted.

“No. I didn’t want to wear you out.. too bad.. but that's alright, we can just go to bed and I’ll get some you water—” he moved to rise from the bed but she grabbed his arm. She’s eye level with it, appreciating the beauty of his generous length, a head that swelled to a pretty pink hue.

“Can I..?”

“Think you can handle it, sweets?” He leaned back with a short laugh. Her voice strained and breathy yet she won’t stop.

Rose reached out and dragged her tongue down his slit, tasting her sweet juices mixed with his salty precum. She felt him shiver, so she repeated.

Who is this girl?

Her lips enveloped the tip, eyes flicking up at him. Bright hazel orbs, contrasting with his darkened blues as he watched her carefully. Then she released it with an audible pop. “I dunno’, I'm not sure I can fit it all..” she cheekily grinned, he felt so much thicker in her hand.

“Now who’s teasing? Be a good girl now.” Kai groans, lightly bucking his hips toward her.

She giggled and began dragging her tongue along the thick vein that ran the length of his cock. She took him as far back as she could, rolling her hand along what she couldn’t fit. Picking up a steady rhythm, she took more as she relaxed her throat. His hand gripped the back of her head, moving faster as tears fell from her lashes, saliva fully coating her chin.

She watched his face contort with pleasure. There was something about asserting herself and watching him unravel for her that made her leak with fresh arousal.

His soft grunts, laced with short curses as he felt his balls tighten. He pushed her down on his shaft as he twitched against her tonsils.

“Rose—” he grunts.

Thick ropes of cum coat her tongue and throat. He withdrew from her and some dripped out the side of her mouth. Before her tongue could dart out, he caught it on the pad of his thumb. Without missing a beat, she sucked it into her mouth, releasing it once clean.

He exhaled sharply, “you blow my mind, Rosy.”

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pxnsneverland · 3 months

Text

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 7)

(gif source: bin1es)

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,724

warnings/notes:

Chapter 7: A Dance of Threads

As they entered the parlor, Mr. Pembroke's gloved hand rested on the ornate doorknob, holding it open for them. The room was filled with the scents of lavender and sandalwood, and luxurious silk drapes adorned the windows. A grand piano stood in one corner, its polished wood reflecting the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. On the plush velvet couch sat a petite woman with chestnut curls cascading down her back. Her eyes sparkled as she caught sight of Austin, and her rose-colored lips curved into a luminous smile. She gracefully stood up, giving a slight curtsy in greeting.

“Lord Butler,” she greeted.

Austin's tall frame bent at the waist in a fluid motion, releasing Violet's arm before taking Evie's delicate hand in his own. His lips touched her knuckles gently, a gesture of chivalry. "There's no need for such formality, Evie," he coaxed with a charming smile. He turned to Violet, his voice like smooth honey as he asked, "Would you judge me if I didn't adhere to strict etiquette?”

Violet's head shook with a nervous twitch, her lips curling into a slight smile. "No, no," she replied quickly, trying to hide her nerves. Her eyes flicked towards the elegant woman standing before her, dressed in impeccable fashion. This was Evelyn Rosewood, renowned modiste and one of her host's oldest friends. As Violet took in the intricate details of Evelyn's dress and perfectly coiffed hair, she couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and intimidation in the presence of such talent and grace. She instinctively straightened her posture and smoothed out the wrinkles in her own dress, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her appearance compared to Evelyn's.

As Violet approached, Evelyn's hand was extended towards her, a warm smile gracing her lips. Her teeth were impeccably straight and gleaming white, adding to her already stunning appearance. The sound of her voice was soft and gentle, like the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze, immediately putting Violet at ease. "Miss Everly, it is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you," she said with a soothing cadence. "I have heard so much about you from Austin, and I must say, I am excited to help bring out your natural elegance.”

Violet's hand shook as she hesitated, her fingers hovering just above Evelyn's outstretched hand. She took a deep breath and finally made contact, feeling the gentle warmth of the older woman's palm against her own. "Thank you, Miss Rosewood," she murmured, barely audible. Her rough, calloused hands were not accustomed to such delicate touch and expensive jewelry. “I am not accustomed to such…finery.”

Evelyn's laughter rang out like the tinkling of tiny, silver bells, bringing a smile to Austin's face. She gestured towards a table covered in luxurious fabric swatches and elegant dress designs. "Let's find something that not only fits you, but truly celebrates you," she said.

As Austin watched, it seemed as though Violet was shedding her defensive barriers under Evelyn's gentle and skilled touch. Austin could see the transformation happening before his eyes, like witnessing a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

Evelyn's elegant fingers glided over the intricate patterns of the luxurious fabrics, each one more opulent than the next. She led Violet to a table overflowing with materials fit for a princess. Violet's breath caught as she ran her hand over a midnight blue velvet, its surface shimmering under the soft glow of the room's lighting. Evelyn smiled and nodded at Violet's unspoken question. "That color will accentuate your eyes perfectly," she murmured.

As Evelyn took Violet's measurements, she spoke in a soothing tone about the designs she had in mind. "We'll create a fitted bodice to emphasize your posture and draw attention to your slender figure," she explained, her fingers deftly marking out lines on the fabric.

Violet leaned in, her whole being focused on every word that escaped Evelyn's lips. The room was filled with the scent of freshly-cut roses and the soft glow of flickering candles. As Evelyn spoke, she gestured gracefully with her delicate hands, highlighting each design element with precision. Violet felt like a canvas being painted upon, her emotions shifting with every brushstroke of Evelyn's words.

Across the room, Austin observed silently, his intense gaze fixed on Violet. She could feel his eyes on her, like a comforting warmth spreading through her body. With each step he took, his powerful presence filled the room, commanding attention without saying a word. The sound of his shoes echoed against the marble floors as he moved closer.

"You wear it beautifully, even before it has been crafted," he murmured, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine. His clothes fit him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and confident stance. The rich fabric whispered against his skin as he reached out to touch one of the pieces on display.

Violet couldn't help but blush under his intense gaze, feeling like a bird caught in a trance by a skilled predator. But as their eyes met, his smile was warm and reassuring, calming her nerves and making her heart flutter like a butterfly in flight. The air between them was charged with an electricity that neither of them could deny or ignore.

"Thank you, Lord Butler," she responded. She nervously smoothed out her dress, trying to maintain her composure under Lord Butler's intense gaze. His piercing blue eyes remained fixed on hers, unblinking and unwavering. As he took a small step towards her, the fabric of his silk coat rustled in the quiet room. The air seemed charged with electricity as they stood in silence, the tension between them almost palpable. Her heart raced and her palms grew clammy as she struggled to hold his gaze.

"Please, call me Austin.” As Violet stared into Austin's eyes, she noticed the sincerity in his gentle plea. He extended his hand towards her with an open palm, as if inviting her to get closer. She couldn't help but feel drawn to him, his name simple yet holding a hint of mystery that intrigued her.

With each syllable of his name falling from her lips, she felt a sense of familiarity and warmth fill her. "Austin," she repeated softly. A small smile tugged at his lips. A small smile tugged at the corners of Austin's lips as he returned her gaze with fondness

Evelyn crouched in front of Violet, her nimble fingers meticulously arranging the delicate lace and silk fabric around her form. Austin leaned against a nearby column, his intense gaze following every movement of Evelyn's skilled hands. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the grand windows, casting a warm glow on the soft folds of fabric that surrounded them. As Evelyn stepped out to retrieve a forgotten lace trim from her carriage, the room was suddenly filled with a hushed stillness. Austin and Violet were left alone, breathing the only sound in the otherwise silent space.

A hesitant silence hung between them, until finally Austin broke the stillness with a gentle voice. "You seem to be adjusting well," he observed, his words filled with both curiosity and concern.

Violet turned towards him, her heart still fluttering like a delicate butterfly in the aftermath of their quiet intimacy. The warmth of his hand lingered on her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Her cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush as she shyly whispered, "Yes, thank you.” The midnight blue velvet cloak draped over her shoulders felt like a regal embrace, its soft fabric caressing her skin and instilling her with an odd sense of empowerment.

A glimmer of relief lit up Austin's tired eyes, softening them and revealing a hint of vulnerability. He released a small sigh, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders."I'm glad. I must admit, I was concerned about how you would find life here... after everything."

"I appreciate your concern, Lord—Austin." A soft, warm smile spread across his face as she corrected herself, addressing him by his proper title. She couldn't help but feel a flutter in her chest at the sight of that charming smile and the way his dimples appeared when he laughed.

"It is unusual," she said, the soft timbre of her voice betraying a hint of fear, “When whispers paint a different picture of you."

A look of deep contemplation washed over Austin's face, his hazel eyes drifting towards the grand piano situated in the corner of the room. Its smooth ebony surface gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier, intricate carvings along its legs and fallboard hinting at its antiquity and value. With a graceful stride, he made his way towards the piano, his movements fluid and confident as if he had played on this very instrument countless times before. His long fingers gently ran over the keys, eliciting a series of delicate notes that filled the room with a melodic charm. "May I?" he asked, turning back to her with an earnestness that was impossible to resist.

Violet's eyes were fixated on his hands, moving with fluid grace over the piano keys, sending shivers down her spine. “Please.”

Austin gracefully lowered himself onto the piano bench, his fingers hovering over the ivory keys with a practiced ease. He ran his eyes over the black and white pattern just once before he began to play. The melody that poured forth from his fingertips was hauntingly beautiful, each note ringing out with a sense of deep longing and sadness, but also with a glimmer of hope. It seemed to tell a story, one of struggle and hidden dreams, and Violet couldn't help but feel drawn in by its emotive power. As the music swirled around her, she felt as though it were building a bridge between their hearts, connecting them in a way words never could. She was completely captivated.

As the last note faded into the night, Austin turned to face her, his features softened and unguarded. Violet's eyes met his, her own emotions reflecting the rawness in his deep blue gaze. "That was beautiful," she murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from him. A magnetic pull drew her towards him, a sensation she couldn't quite explain but one that felt inexplicably right.

Austin stood up and closed the distance between them. His deep voice was laced with both tenderness and intensity as he spoke."Violet, I never intended for you to be drawn into my world." He paused, his piercing gaze searching her eyes for a glimmer of understanding. "But now that you are here, I find myself hoping you might stay."

Before Violet could respond, the sound of the door clicking open interrupted the charged atmosphere. Evelyn stepped back into the room, her arms laden with spools of delicate lace and a contented smile on her face. She paused momentarily as she noticed the proximity between Austin and Violet, an expression of mild surprise flickering across her features before she swiftly masked it with her customary warm grin.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Evelyn said, her voice laced with a hint of mirth as she moved towards a nearby table to lay down her materials. "I found just the right trim for your gown, Violet. It’s a vintage lace; very rare."

Austin stepped back from Violet, clearing his throat slightly as he composed himself. "Thank you, Evelyn," he replied, his tone casual but his eyes still holding a flicker of intensity from his earlier words.

Evelyn glanced between them, a knowing look in her eye, but chose to focus on her fabrics instead. "The lace is quite exquisite, really," she continued, unfolding the delicate material for Violet to see. It was beautifully intricate, threaded through with hints of silver that caught the light as it moved. "It'll complement the velvet wonderfully."

Violet was drawn to the lace, appreciative of its beauty but also grateful for a reason to steady her emotions. The cool threads felt comforting under her fingertips. "It’s beautiful, Evelyn. Thank you.”

"Of course, my dear," Evelyn replied, her voice soft and soothing. "It’s my pleasure to assist in adorning such a willing canvas."

As Evelyn continued to discuss her design ideas with Violet, Austin quietly exited the room.

***************************

Days later, Violet found herself aimlessly strolling through the dimly lit hallways of the manor, her mind consumed with thoughts of Austin. The gentle touch of his hand on hers earlier in the evening had sparked a whirlwind of emotions that she couldn't quite grasp. The manor was silent except for the soft breeze brushing against the ancient stone walls, and she moved almost unconsciously, drawn deeper into its depths.

As she passed by a partially open door, a tense and sharp voice stopped her in her tracks. It was Mr. Pembroke's voice, filled with both worry and accusation, in a stern tone that Violet had never heard before.

"You should never have brought her here, Austin," Mr. Pembroke stated firmly, his tone both worried and accusatory. "She is too... tempting for you. This proximity— it’s dangerous."

There was a heavy silence, and then Austin's voice replied, low and strained. "I know what I am doing, Pembroke.”

“Do you? I have seen the way you look her, how delicately you treat her. What happens when the hunger becomes too strong? When you can’t resist the smell of her—”

“Enough!” Austin slammed his hands down on the desk in front of him. “I would never hurt her.”

“Not intentionally. But I have been by your side a long time, my lord. The thirst—”

Austin paced the room, each step echoing like a distant drum in the quiet night. His jaw was set, his eyes haunted by battles fought in the darkness of his own soul. "You think I am not aware?" he said quietly, stopping to face the window. "You think I do not feel it gnawing at me every moment she is near?"

Mr. Pembroke sighed, his expression softening as he watched his master struggle with his inner demons. "I know you do, sir. And I fear for you both." He paused before adding solemnly, "Especially for her."

Violet's heart seemed to seize within her chest, her emotions tangled as tightly as the vines that crept along the manor's old stone walls. She had come in search of solitude, a place to ponder the peculiar warmth she felt around Austin—how his slightest smile or the mere touch of his hand could set her adrift in turbulent seas of feeling. Yet here she stood, invisible in the shadowed threshold, eavesdropping on a conversation that she knew would alter everything. Fear prickled at the base of her neck, sharp and cold as the draught that danced through the corridor. The chilling words hung in the air like a dense fog, seeping into her very bones. How could someone so composed and formidable grapple with such overpowering vulnerabilities?

As she stood there, cocooned in the thick shadows just beyond the flickering light from the room, her mind replayed every encounter with Austin. Each smile, each thoughtful gaze he had directed at her now seemed laden with an unspoken gravity that pressed heavily on her chest. The realization that his struggle was far more profound than she could have imagined ignited a fierce protectiveness over him, mingling strangely with her own survival instincts. A part of her yearned to burst into the room, to confront the palpable tension. Yet, another part, gripped by an almost paralyzing fear, urged her to flee—to run from the manor and its dark secrets that seemed as ancient as the stones themselves.

Caught in this tempest of thought and emotion, Violet shifted slightly, her foot brushing against a loose floorboard. The sharp creak shattered the silence like glass. Instantly, the voices ceased. The eerie quiet that followed was suffocating. Violet's breath hitched in her throat, and for an agonizing moment, time seemed suspended.

Then Austin spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness with unnerving calmness. "Who is out there?"

The air in the corridor grew colder, a palpable tension swelling as Violet's heart pounded in her ears. She felt pinned in place, her instincts at war between the urge to reveal herself and a desperate wish to vanish into the shadows. Slowly, with a sense of inevitability etching through her bones, Violet stepped forward into the dim light spilling from the room. "It's me," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper but loud enough in the haunting silence.

Austin turned sharply at the sound of her voice, his expression transforming from suspicion to something undefinable. His eyes, usually so commanding and unreadable, now betrayed a hint of vulnerability. Mr. Pembroke looked between them, an uneasy expression etched upon his features.

"I... I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Violet stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Austin and Mr. Pembroke. "I was just—

"There is no need for explanations, Miss Everly," Mr. Pembroke interjected smoothly, though his eyes held a warning glint that suggested the gravity of what she might have overheard. "These walls are old; they carry sound misleadingly."

Austin stepped closer to her, each movement deliberate and controlled. There was an intensity about him now that seemed almost palpable, a dark aura that both frightened and compelled her. "Violet," he began, his voice low and resonant, "what you heard—"

"I understand it's none of my business," Violet interrupted quickly, not entirely sure if she spoke out of fear or a protective urge towards Austin’s privacy. “I didn’t hear much truthfully.”

Austin’s gaze lingered on her, his eyes searching. For a brief moment, there was silence again, thick and unyielding, as if the world held its breath. Then he softened, the tension leaving his body if only for a moment. “Very well,” he said with a forced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Mr. Pembroke, observing the delicate interplay of emotions crossing Austin's face, cleared his throat discreetly, a subtle but insistent reminder of the propriety that governed their actions. "Perhaps, it would be best if I attended to some matters elsewhere," he suggested, his voice measured and bearing an undercurrent of urgency. "I shall ensure that everything is in order for tonight's gathering."

With a final nod that seemed to convey a multitude of unspoken thoughts and warnings, Mr. Pembroke excused himself, his footsteps echoing down the grand hallway with a rhythm that mirrored the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock at its end. The old clock, a sentinel in time, chimed softly, marking the hour. Austin watched Mr. Pembroke depart with an unreadable expression before turning back to face Violet. The room seemed smaller now without Mr. Pembroke's commanding presence, yet charged with an electric intensity as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen.

In the vacant quiet left by Mr. Pembroke’s departure, Violet felt as though she was truly seeing Austin for the first time—the complexities of his nature suddenly laid bare. There was something deeply compelling about his troubled solitude, and despite her apprehensions, she felt an undeniable pull toward him. She decided to break the silence. “Gathering?”

Austin, glad for the change in subject, nodded. “Yes. An annual ball I am all but forced to throw every year for the socialites around the area. More of a formality than anything.” He gestured to the vast hall outside the room, where servants were already starting to arrange decorations. "It's an obligation, but one that provides a... welcome distraction."

Violet nodded, absorbing every detail, her curiosity piqued. "It sounds... extravagant." She paused, then added with a hint of playfulness that surprised even herself, "Will I be expected to attend this grand affair?"

Austin's expression shifted slightly, and for a brief moment, his guarded reserve faltered. "I would be honored if you joined me," he replied earnestly, then hesitated. "But only if you wish. You are under no obligation to participate."

The invitation and its cautious delivery spoke volumes to Violet. It was a glimpse into the duality of Austin’s existence—caught between the obligations of his status and his more genuine impulses. Her heart fluttered at the sincerity in his voice, pushing her earlier reservations momentarily aside.

"I think…I would like to attend," Violet responded softly, her decision surprising both Austin and herself. "If my lack of social decorum wouldn’t be an embarrassment to you.”

Austin walked closer to her taking her hand. He placed a delicate kiss on her fingers. The touch of his lips was light, yet it sent a shiver racing through Violet's body, her skin tingling with a mixture of alarm and exhilaration. She looked up at him, her piercing gray eyes wide and searching.

"You could never be an embarrassment," Austin murmured, his voice low and imbued with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "I assure you, the pleasure would be entirely mine." His gaze held hers, steadfast and revealing a hint of vulnerability that she had not seen in him before.

Violet felt the walls she had meticulously built around herself tremble under the weight of his words. Here was a man marked by power and shrouded in mystery, yet offering her a kindness that felt both genuine and heart-stirringly tender.

"Then I shall prepare myself to be your most charming guest," Violet replied, the corners of her mouth lifting into a tentative smile. The atmosphere between them was charged now, the air thick with something unspoken but palpably present.

Austin's grip on her hand lingered, a silent plea in his touch before he reluctantly let go. "One more thing," he started, the timbre of his voice turning grave once more. "At the ball...stay by my side." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken warnings and a fierce protectiveness that caught Violet off guard. It left her pondering about the mysterious attendees of the upcoming event and the secrets they might hold.

"I will," she vowed, her words a mere breath, almost drowned out by the faint crackle of the fire in the far recesses of the chamber. As Violet's thoughts whirled with uncertainties about the impending gathering — pondering who might attend and what hidden perils awaited necessitating such proximity to Austin — a rush of excitement tingled through her. The idea of standing beside him among enigmatic high society figures sparked an intoxicating blend of apprehension and fascination within her.

Stay tuned for part 8!! Click HERE to view!

Taglist: @buckysteveloki-me @imusicaddict

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eldritch-spouse · 4 months

Note

Seeing you new xenomorph OC reminded me of an old idea I had so long ago that I have never shared and I thought I've forgotten.

It was about a new rare species where there could be males and females unlike the original species where they were all females or asexual (i didn't check, correct me if I'm wrong) and looked like the drones except they have a simpler "crown" on their heads like the xenos queens. Like they are more like "princes" or "princesses".

The main differences are that they need another species to reproduce and the mature one can leave peacefully their hive to find their own mates and start their own. They prefer intelligent species as their mates (like humans! wink wonk).

Once they find their life mate (cuz they are monogamous too) they enter their "courting phase" where they are extra aggressive against everything specially those physically near their chosen mate. With their mate they try to show how attentive and capable to provide they are, like bringing trinkets similar to your belongings or something you seem to like (like that snack from that vending machine you seem to like, they swear they will learn how to get it from it like you do or rip it open and loot everything), other prey or some tough enemies like a yautja or a pile of marines.

Mostly, they would watch their mate from the shadows to learn their behavior and adopt it but sometimes they would approach and grope their body to learn about their anatomy and what make them tick. This last bit is important for the next phase, the "honeymoon".

Once they have learned enough and prepared a nice nesting spot, no matter if their mate is willing or not (although if they seem willing that would speed things up) they will knock them out and bring them to the nest. There they will seal the entry and start breeding their mate until "genetics decipher out". Once they are expecting they will start to grow in size until they are a xeno queen/king and being even more territorial. Don't expect them to stop trying for more offspring once they are kings/queens, the size difference won't deter them (maybe even encourage them). Btw, it's impossible for the offspring to be anything but xenos.

Also, I don't why I like to think if their mate dies for some reason or another they become depressed, like swans. They won't even be as aggressive as when they met their mate, maybe even passive to anything but not before getting revenge.

… Man, that was long. TL;DR: new species of monogamous xenos that need other species for reproduction and they are like xenos queen

I thought about something similar too years ago, but then I veered into a different scenario where a hive stricken by a virus that eliminated all females -Leaving none to become Queen- Had to adapt and pick another species' female to become their Queen. An old hive, with many a specimen from different hosts.

This is a grossly short summary of a rather complex idea that I'm freaky about, but naturally, you would be chosen. And part of the story I had concocted involved you coping with your new role, the new instincts and abilities you acquired, as well as managing to keep some of your creature comforts through it all (hilariously also watching xenomorphs of varied casts adapt to them). There was also a ridiculous amount of porn, because it wouldn't be my story otherwise. Since all males had to adapt to his new reproductive system, they would develop ruts and the hive would fall into chaos because hormones get in the way of their perfect routines. You come along and a selection process begins, wherein you must pick mates from all casts of xenomorphs present (they're all peacocking in efforts to get chosen) -To keep population levels stable- And those males will later enter your chambers to deposit the eggs within their painfully engorged ovipositors inside your adapted womb.

And who wouldn't want to mate with the Queen, right? Especially this new Queen, affectionate and soft and warm as she is...

I never played too much with the concept of a xenomorph King, but if I had to pick a specimen to base the concept off of, it'd be a tie between these three.

The "xenomorph King" figure, the "Chimera" from Aliens Rogue and the "Alpha" from Alien Bloodlines. I'm partial towards Alpha.

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sir-fluffbutts · 5 months

Note

hi fluff! Ive been a big fan of yours for a while and ive been following your oc's stories for a while especially the axolotls but im more confused on your otger plot and lores such as

Lotl.corp (hope i spelled that right)

Fish market

And

Angle café

Along with others stories Such as Berry and that blue haired priest character. If you dont mind can you explain certian plot points and lore im just really confused and i'd like to know more so i can get more used to seeing these characters and understand tbeir stories

HELLO!!! AND OH 😈😈 let ME

-----------------------

without spoiling anything,

the axolotls story follows latte as the main character (although i use chiffon as the "main character" in my YT stuff)

muffin (his brother) has went in a coma after a freak drunk driving accident 5 years ago and he's SURE chiffon(his little brother) has to do something with it.

the story goes as latte try to track the evidence down and make chiffon face proper punishment by the law.

-------

fish market follows pepper as the main character

he's a troubled indevisual with issues but is slowly stepping away from the shadow his past created, however he have done something to someone that backtracks all that and made him became the worst version of himself

i haven't went into lore specifics of this story yet so sit down and enjoy the show 😎

------

angel cafe story follows blossom as the main character

he (a tracker hellhound) had escaped hell in hopes of running away from his unfair treatment, however this made him public hell enemy #1 and he is being activly haunted by almost everyone

a high angel (cupid) named valentine has took him in and they're in a temporary symbiotic relationship cause valentine needed someone to track something, a powerful demon named eve

again! this one you gotta sit down and enjoy the show cause i haven't even introduced backbite yet

------------

the humans lore is....built different

cause it don't really have a specific "lore", its more of bunch of slice of life storys with sprinkles of timelines of horrible butterfly effects and resets

the main characters are

vincent, a art college student who draws buff furries for a "temp living". he can tick anytime and kill people but thats for a another time

joie, a college dropout that has the will of a wet sponge. currently living with his cosmic horror boyfriend and he has the curse of regeneration

barry, a event host and a bar owner who has a tiny crush on his childhood friend. he also has been a canibal (not a killer!) before but this is wierdly very unrelevent to everything

and colin, who dropped out of uni to seek for his true passion but struggling, mothers everyone mentioned above and is the most normal guy here, childhood friend of barry

with bit of side characters such as

mael, a prist at a local church who has darker intentions

amy whos crushing on vincent (he is not getting the hint at all, at this point she has suspicions that he's 🏳️‍🌈?)

rico, a random kid that seems to follow the main cast

and him

#ask #THE STORIES I HAVE.....MY +600 NOTE PAGES.....#hyperfixiation of a thing nobody knows about is so strong man im suffering

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batmanlovesnirvana · 25 days

Text

Chapter three | Entre Deux Mondes.

masterlist.

pairing : bruce wayne x fem!oc

author’s note : chapter three is here! Get ready to see a new side of Maryam and Bruce… ;) Just a reminder that English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. xx

cw : maryam = older sister core, bruce playing emo as usual, mafia, bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE DINING ROOM was enveloped in the gentle embrace of late morning light, its golden rays filtering through tall windows, casting intricate shadows that danced gracefully across the polished mahogany table.

Two young executives sat at one end, their suits and neat ties an almost jarring contrast to the timeless elegance of the room. They leaned forward, their expressions taut with a mix of impatience and unease, eyes locked onto Bruce Wayne, who sat at the head of the table, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. His posture was as impenetrable as his expression, a stone-faced calm that hinted at anything but interest.

One of the executives, his voice tight with the gravity of their situation, began to speak, "I'm afraid we're at a critical juncture..." His words hung in the air, but they seemed to drift past Bruce, who had barely acknowledged their presence since the meeting began. Instead, Bruce's gaze slid distractedly to the newspaper folded neatly beside him, an artifact of another world amidst the spreadsheets and balance sheets dominating the conversation.

The other executive, sensing the lack of attention from their host, leaned in, desperation edging into his voice. "At the very least, we'll need your signature to cover these losses..." His words trailed off as Bruce, with deliberate slowness, reached for the newspaper. The quiet rustle of the pages seemed louder than it should, filling the room with a subtle tension.

The executives exchanged a glance, their confidence faltering in the face of Bruce's indifference. Alfred, standing by the side with a composed demeanor, offered them a polite, almost apologetic smile, as if to say, this is just how it is. The room felt heavier with every passing second, the silence more telling than words.

Bruce opened the newspaper, his gaze scanning the sea of letters before him. To the young executives, it must have seemed as if the words on the page held the key to something far beyond their understanding, something that captured Bruce's attention more completely than their urgent pleas ever could. The wheels in his mind turned, not on the financial crisis they presented, but on something deeper, more distant.

"Mr. Wayne...?" One of the executives ventured, his voice a thin thread of hope in the tension-filled room.

Alfred's calm voice broke through the silence, an understated prompt, "...what?"

Bruce glanced up, his expression momentarily blank, as if pulled from some far-off place. He blinked, his mind refocusing on the present, on the weight of the situation that sat before him in the form of two nervous executives.

"I... I need your signature, sir..." The executive’s voice wavered slightly, the formality strained against the raw need for Bruce’s attention.

Without a word, Bruce took the pen offered to him, his hand moving with the same detached efficiency with which he had flipped through the newspaper. As he signed the papers, the young executives watched, a mix of relief and wariness settling over them.

The hum of the Batcave's high-tech machinery filled the space, a constant reminder of the endless work that took place within its shadowed depths. The dim light cast a cold glow on Bruce's face as he stared intently at the computer screen before him, his mind racing with possibilities.

Bruce’s voice, calm yet edged with intensity, broke the silence. “What if it isn’t a partial key...?”

Alfred, standing beside him, frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “What do you mean?”

Bruce’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he brought up the cipher on the screen, the intricate web of symbols and letters taunting them with its complexity. “What if it’s the whole key? Ignore the symbols we don’t have letters for, use only the letters from ‘he lies still,’ and leave the rest—”

Alfred’s eyes widened in sudden understanding as he followed Bruce’s line of thinking. “—blank, yes—I understand,” he murmured, his hands moving to delete the unnecessary letters from the cipher. “But that will leave most of the cipher unsolved... I don’t see how that—oh…”

His voice trailed off, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as the pattern began to emerge on the screen. The seemingly random jumble of letters and symbols was now stripped down, revealing something far more deliberate beneath the surface.

“Well.” Alfred’s tone was a mixture of surprise and admiration as he stared at the screen, impressed by Bruce’s insight.

They both gazed at the laptop, where most of the cipher was now blank. But the remaining letters, scattered across the page, began to align themselves, forming a clear, undeniable message. It was like a game of connect-the-dots, the letters slowly coming together to spell out a single, massive word across the screen:

“DRIVE.”

The word hung there, stark and unmissable, its significance yet another piece of the puzzle that they were slowly, methodically, beginning to solve.

After meeting with Gordon at the diner, Maryam returned to her apartment, feeling like she was about to just wither away.

It was her only day off that week, and although she usually cherished it, her mind was too cluttered to truly enjoy it. She tried to sleep but kept tossing and turning. Frustrated, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through social media. With no notifications to distract her, she eventually threw the phone onto her bed with an exasperated huff.

Rising from her bed, her silk robe trailing behind her, she wandered into the small kitchen that overlooked her living room. She opened the fridge, only to find it almost empty. Muttering a little curse under her breath, she grabbed a lone carrot, rinsed it, cut off the ends, and took a bite. Pulling her phone out from inside her bra, she unlocked it and called the Japanese takeout down the road.

"Hey, Li, it's Maryam. Can I order the usual, please?" she asked, chewing on the carrot.

"On it. It'll be delivered in 15 minutes," Li replied.

"Thanks, see you soon," she said before hanging up. She then headed to the couch, flopping onto it. Grabbing the remote, she flipped through the channels—news, more news, reality TV, even more news, cartoons. She finally settled on an episode of Sex and the City.

As she waited for her food and half-watched her show, her phone buzzed. It was a notification from her sister Nadia, linking to an article titled, "Falcone Heir Spotted on Secret Date Night—Gotham's Underworld Buzzing!"

Maryam’s eyes widened as she read the headline. Vittorio Falcone, known to his close circle as Vito, was the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, the notorious mafia kingpin. Vittorio was strikingly handsome, with an air of mystery that made him a magnet for women. Despite his involvement in the family business, he was considered one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors—second only to the reclusive Bruce Wayne, who, despite rarely being seen in public, still held the top spot in Gotham’s bachelor rankings. Vito's charm and loyalty to his family were undeniable, and while he had ambitions to make the Falcone empire legitimate, his ties to the criminal underworld were far from severed.

“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” Maryam muttered.

She couldn’t resist opening the article to see for herself. As she scrolled through the piece, her suspicions were confirmed—it was indeed about Vittorio and Alma’s date. Although the article didn’t identify Alma, Maryam recognized her sister instantly. That auburn hair and the red coat she’d gifted her years ago were unmistakable.

The article dripped with juicy gossip:

"One of Gotham’s infamous bachelor, Vittorio Falcone, was spotted dining with a mysterious woman at an upscale restaurant last night. While her face was hidden, her auburn hair and chic red coat caught the attention of onlookers. Sources say the two seemed quite cozy, fueling rumors of a budding romance. Could the notorious Falcone heir be off the market? And who is the lucky lady that’s captured his attention? Gotham’s underworld is buzzing with speculation, and many are eager to see how this potential match could impact the Falcone empire."

Maryam rubbed her eyes in frustration. She was about to call Alma when the doorbell rang. Grabbing some cash, she opened the door, took her order, and handed over the money.

Sitting on her kitchen counter, Maryam took her sushi out of the bag, the smell of fresh seafood mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator, setting each piece neatly in front of her like little treasures. She tried calling Alma—no answer. Her eyes darted to the clock—4:34 PM. The room felt too quiet, too still. "Probably working," she muttered under her breath, the sound of her own voice a comfort against the silence.

Without much thought, she dialed Nadia, who picked up after just two rings.

“Have you seen it?” Nadia's voice burst through the line, skipping any pleasantries, her eagerness sharp as a blade.

“Yep,” Maryam replied, popping a piece of sushi into her mouth with her chopsticks. The wasabi heat lingered, but her tone remained cool. “Not shocked.”

“What?!” Nadia exclaimed, her disbelief palpable even through the phone.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little surprised it made the tabloids, but I’m not shocked he asked her out. I had my suspicions ever since I saw him at the restaurant where she works, looking at her like she was the last light in a dark room.”

“I can’t believe she actually accepted,” Nadia said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “And that wretched article—ugh, I swear I’ll always hate Vicki Vale!”

“She told me he kept pestering her,” Maryam said, her voice trailing off as she chewed her sushi, the thought lingering like the taste of ginger on her tongue. She shrugged, trying to brush off the unease creeping into her chest.

“Maryam, aren’t you worried? How—” Nadia’s voice rose, a tremor of fear threading through her words.

Maryam set her chopsticks down with a sigh, her calm facade barely masking the frustration bubbling underneath. “Of course, I’m worried. I’ve warned her over and over, but she’s as stubborn as a mule—just like the rest of us. I can’t control her anymore,” she sighed again, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. “She’s 24 now Nads, finishing her studies, and working like anyone else. She’s an adult, for better or worse.”

Nadia's voice softened, but the concern remained. “So, we’re just going to let this happen?”

Maryam sighed once more as she opened her curry rice container. The steam rose like a beckoning hand, enveloping the kitchen in the warm, rich aroma of spices. “She says they’re just friends. That he’s not as bad as we think.”

Nadia snorted on the other end, the sound of traffic buzzing in the background. “He’s in the mafia, Maryam. And not just any mafia.”

Maryam rolled her eyes, stabbing at her rice with her chopsticks. “Girl, that’s exactly what I told her. But try telling Alma she’s making a mistake. She’ll just brush it off and say I’m overreacting—again.”

“Well, you are kind of a brat,” Nadia teased, the smirk in her voice unmistakable.

“Only because you make it so easy,” Maryam shot back, a brief smirk flickering across her lips before fading, the frown returning to her sharp features. “Better a brat than blind,” she muttered under her breath.

Nadia hummed in acknowledgment. “Touché,” she conceded.

Maryam shook her head, the humor fading as quickly as it came. “I don’t get why he’s interested in her when she’s not even Italian.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing!” Nadia said, her voice rising over the distant honking of cars. “Aren’t they supposed to marry Italians? You know, to keep the tradition, the bloodline, or whatever.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried she’s just another fling to him. She doesn’t deserve that,” Maryam said, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and protectiveness. “Plus, he’s not just some regular guy—he’s not just another stupid boyfriend she can break up with when things go south. This is literally a mafia boss. He has enemies, and God knows what could happen to her if someone tried to get to him through her.”

“Ugh, don’t even mention it. It’s terrifying. And his family! His father’s reclusive, but everyone knows he practically runs Gotham with all his illegal dealings. His mother died a long time ago, his sister’s in Arkham, and God knows where his brother is!” Nadia paused, her tone shifting. “Not gonna lie, I kind of feel bad for him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Maryam admitted softly, scratching her nose as her mind wandered back to old memories. “She told me he wants to make his business legitimate. When I used to work for Fish, he wanted nothing to do with the empire. But when his mother died, everything changed. He got more involved. He’s always been the most down-to-earth in that family, but still… I’m worried. I talked to Alma, but now I’ll try to talk to him.”

“What?! No, Maryam—”

“Yes, Nadia. I’m going to talk to him, persuade him to leave her alone.”

“And if he refuses?” Nadia asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid to hear the answer.

“If he truly cares about her, he won’t refuse,” Maryam said, more to herself than to Nadia.

“What… what if he actually likes her? Maybe even loves her?”

Maryam paused, the question hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. “Then I won’t have a say in it. It’s between Vito and her if their relationship gets serious. For now, according to Alma, they’re just friends. So, I’ll try to persuade him to back off.”

Nadia hummed in thought. “So, you’re going to…” she trailed off, uncertainty lacing her words.

“I’m not sure—” Maryam began, her voice wavering as she stared at the remnants of her meal. “Honestly, I just don’t know,” she confessed, feeling the weight of the situation settling over her like a thick fog.

“Be careful, please,” Nadia’s voice softened, worry evident in every syllable.

“Haven’t I always been?” Maryam tried to lighten the mood, though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you left that life behind years ago, but somehow, it always comes back to haunt you,” Nadia said, frustration creeping back into her tone.

“It’s not like I have a choice. I’m doing this for Alma. I’ve always done it for all of us,” Maryam said sternly, her voice firm, but a trace of sadness lingered. “Desperate times—”

“Desperate measures, I know, I know,” Nadia cut in. “It just bothers me that you always have to be the one to deal with it.”

Maryam stared at her phone, the screen reflecting her own troubled expression. “Older sister duty, I guess,” she said quietly, the words heavy with resignation. “Look, I’ve got to prepare. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.” The call ended with a click, leaving Maryam alone in her kitchen, the silence pressing in like a heavy weight. She stared at her phone for a long moment, the conversation replaying in her mind, the sushi long forgotten.

After staring into the void for who knows how long, she finally decided that some stalking was in order.

With a determined sigh, Maryam picked up her laptop and typed "Vittorio Falcone" into Google. The search results flooded in instantly, painting a vivid picture of Gotham’s notorious mafia heir.

The first few links were standard—news articles from various tabloids, all speculating about his latest escapades. One headline screamed, “Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor? Inside the Life of Vittorio Falcone.” She clicked on it out of curiosity.

The article was a deep dive into his life, filled with photos of Vittorio at high-end galas, charity events, and exclusive restaurants. In each picture, he looked every bit the part of a modern-day prince of the underworld: impeccably dressed in tailored suits, with sharp, chiseled features and piercing brown eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. He was often surrounded by beautiful women, none of whom seemed to stick around for long, fueling the rumors that he was commitment-averse.

Further down the page, the article detailed his upbringing as the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, Gotham’s most powerful and feared crime lord. There were mentions of his education at elite private schools, his brief stint at a prestigious university in Europe, and how he returned to Gotham after his mother’s death. The article touched on the tragedy that changed everything—how Vittorio, once seen as the more distant and detached son, took up the mantle in the family business after his mother's passing, much to the surprise of Gotham's elite.

Maryam scrolled past the glitzy photos and superficial gossip to the more serious content. There were links to investigative pieces about the Falcone family's alleged criminal activities. These articles painted a darker picture—of a man who, despite his outward charm and good looks, was deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime. There were accusations of money laundering, racketeering, and even more sinister dealings, though none had ever been proven in court. It seemed like Vittorio was always just out of reach of the law, his lawyers too skilled and his connections too powerful.

Another article caught her eye: “The Enigma of Vittorio Falcone: Gotham’s Underworld Prince with a Conscience?” This one speculated on his intentions to legitimize the family business, citing anonymous sources who claimed Vittorio was seeking to clean up his father’s empire. Yet, the piece also noted the challenges he faced, not just from the outside world but from within his own family, where tradition and loyalty to the criminal code ran deep.

Maryam found herself staring at a photo of Vittorio from a charity event. He looked every bit the polished gentleman, a slight smile on his lips as he shook hands with Gotham's mayor. But the eyes—those intense dark brown eyes—held something deeper, something she couldn’t quite place. Was it guilt? Determination? Or just the heavy burden of a man trying to walk two paths at once?

The more she read, the more conflicted she felt.

On one hand, he seemed like a man trapped by circumstances, trying to do right by his family while also seeking a way out of the darkness. On the other, he was undeniably dangerous, a key player in a world that had no room for weakness or sentimentality.

And then there were the comments—hundreds of them—debating whether Vittorio was a misunderstood anti-hero or just another ruthless criminal in an expensive suit. Some praised him for his charity work and the rumors of his attempts to go legitimate, while others condemned him for his involvement in the mafia, no matter how tangential he tried to make it seem.

Lighting a smoke, Maryam let the tendrils curl around her as she exhaled slowly. With the cigarette perched on her plump lips, she decided to dig deeper into Vittorio's family.

Her thin fingers danced across the keyboard as she first searched for his father, Carmine Falcone. The results were exactly what she expected: a mix of old newspaper clippings and online articles chronicling Carmine's rise to power, his iron grip on Gotham's underworld, and the whispers of his influence over city officials. Included were several grainy images of Carmine, embodying the essence of a powerful patriarch, alongside snapshots of his younger self with his parents, revealing a glimpse of his past.

Next, she turned her attention to Vittorio’s mother, Louisa Falcone. Unlike her husband, there was scant information about Louisa, aside from a few mentions of her being a devoted wife and mother. Most sources focused on her tragic death, which appeared to be the catalyst for Vittorio’s deeper involvement in the family business. There were no public photos of her, just a few images of her attending the Catholic Church of Gotham, which only added to the mystique surrounding her.

Maryam then turned her attention to Vittorio’s little sister, Sofia Falcone. As she typed her name into the search bar, her fingers trembled slightly, an instinctive reaction to the heavy air that seemed to surround the very mention of Sofia. The results that flooded the screen were deeply unsettling. Sofia, infamously known as the Hangman, was a rehabilitated serial killer currently housed in Arkham Asylum—a chilling title that sent a shiver down Maryam’s spine.

She had heard whispers of Sofia’s story before, but now, as she read the articles, the horrifying details began to unravel. The screen illuminated her face, casting a pale glow as her expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief. She leaned closer, biting her lip, her brow furrowing with each gruesome revelation. The articles painted a portrait of a woman who had taken her family’s legacy to a terrifying extreme, a twisted sense of justice fueling a brutal killing spree.

Maryam's heart raced as she scrolled down, her hand instinctively reaching up to rub the back of her neck, a gesture of mounting unease. Her eyes widened, and her jaw clenched as she processed the horrific acts Sofia had committed. The chilling accounts felt surreal, each one more gruesome than the last, each detail more haunting.

The doctor shook her head in disbelief, as if attempting to erase the haunting words she had just read with sheer determination. She struggled to comprehend how someone could rationalize such brutality. She had seen her fair share of darkness, but this was something entirely different.

Finally, she moved on to search for Alberto Falcone, Vittorio’s little brother. This profile, while less notorious, still carried its own shadowy weight. As Maryam read through the sparse information available, she could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to ease slightly, but her mind remained restless. Alberto was known as the black sheep of the family, often overlooked and underestimated, a quiet figure lingering in the shadow of his more infamous relatives. Yet the whispers surrounding him hinted at darker inclinations, rumors of his involvement in the notorious Holiday killings that had haunted Gotham years ago.

A frown creased her forehead as she thought of the fractured family dynamic, the burdens each member must carry. With a sigh, Maryam leaned back, taking a moment to process everything she had just read.

The Falcone family was a labyrinth of intrigue and peril, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that unraveling their secrets was crucial to protecting Alma.

She found herself grappling with a deep sense of hypocrisy. Who was she to pass judgment? Of all people, she was far from innocent herself.

Satisfied with what she had uncovered, Maryam turned her attention to tracking Vittorio’s movements for the night.

She started by stalking the social media accounts of his known associates and relatives. And to her frustration, Vittorio himself didn’t seem to have any social media presence—no Instagram, no Twitter, nothing. The most she could find were accounts belonging to some of his younger relatives, mostly teenagers posting selfies and mundane updates.

But then, one profile caught her eye: a cousin of Vittorio’s, a certain Francesco Vittorio, who went by the Instagram handle "frankiefalconethegreat." The name made her roll her eyes, but as she scrolled through his recent posts, she stumbled upon a video in his story that piqued her interest. The clip was taken at the Iceberg Lounge, Gotham's most notorious nightclub, known for its shady dealings and criminal clientele.

In the video, Frankie was doing something stupid—likely showing off or trying to be funny—but it wasn’t him that interested Maryam. Behind him, in the dim lighting of the club, she caught sight of someone familiar. She quickly screenshotted the video and then zoomed in on the background. The lighting was poor, so she increased the brightness on her phone, enhancing the image.

And there he was—Vittorio Falcone. He stood partially obscured, talking in hushed tones with a man she didn’t recognize. A cigarette was dangling from his fingers, and his white shirt was open at the collar, the top two buttons undone, giving him a relaxed but undeniably commanding presence.

“Bingo,” Maryam whispered to herself, her heart racing slightly as she stared at the image. She had found him.

Taking the last sip of her Sprite, the fizz tickling her throat before she tossed the empty can into the bin. The clink echoed in the quiet apartment as she made her way to her room with a determined stride, the air thick with purpose as she prepared herself mentally for what lay ahead.

The decision was made. Her sister was right—she was going to suit up.

Tonight was no ordinary night; it was one that demanded more than just her usual resolve.

And it had been a while since she—transformed herself, hadn’t it? "A while" might be stretching it; it had been exactly two years since she last donned the costume.

But oh well, here she was again, slipping back into that familiar darkness, like an old lover who never truly left, always lingering in the shadows, waiting for her return.

As the silk nightgown slid off her shoulders, leaving her in just her undergarments, the cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps—a fleeting moment of vulnerability before she transformed into something else entirely.

She first reached for a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. The fabric was soft but durable, clinging to her form like a second skin, offering both comfort and the freedom to move. It absorbed the light, rendering her nearly invisible in the shadows.

Next, she pulled on a pair of tailored black pants, reinforced in all the right places for both flexibility and protection. They hugged her hips and legs, allowing silent, fluid movements and tucked neatly into knee-high boots—sturdy, well-worn, and perfect for silent, agile movement—essential for the night ahead.

With her base layer in place, she began to suit up.

First, the black scarf, soft yet deadly, was wrapped around the lower half of her face, transforming her into a phantom. The material clung to her skin, muffling her breath, but she was used to it—the silence, the secrecy.

Then her cloak, black as the void itself, draping over her shoulders and sliding down her arms with the weight of a familiar embrace. It flowed around her like liquid shadow, designed to hide her every movement, to make her one with the night.

Her hazel eyes, naturally vibrant like the light filtering through a forest canopy and always seeming to hold a kaleidoscope of emotions, were the final detail to mask.

She reached for the black contact lenses, slipping them in with care.

They turned her gaze into a pair of dark, unreadable pools—voids that reflected nothing back, hiding her true self even further.

With her transformation almost complete, she knelt down and pulled a box from beneath her bed. The lid creaked as it opened, revealing a carefully arranged collection of tools.

Her fingers brushed over the small, gleaming knives, their blades catching the dim light, each one honed to perfection. There were also vials filled with venomous liquids, each labeled with delicate precision.

They shimmered ominously, deadly in their silence.

Small, unassuming pills nestled beside them, tiny capsules that could bring about a world of pain or relief, depending on the dosage.

She began to arm herself, slipping two of the knives into the straps on her thighs, another pair into the hidden pockets of her boots. Six more found their place at her waist, resting just behind her back, ready to be drawn in an instant. The thinnest one, almost like a needle, was delicately tucked into her updo, a silent promise of lethal grace.

The pills were carefully placed in her pockets, their weight barely noticeable but their significance undeniable.

Each one was a solution, a safeguard, a final measure if all else failed.

As she tugged on her sleek black gloves, each movement was deliberate, like a distant ritual.

She glanced back at the mirror, where her reflection stared back with an almost haunting intensity. It was as if the mirror had captured a shadowy echo of her true self, someone who was both there and not there, like a wraith emerging from a fog.

Heart racing, she darted through the kitchen, barely noticing the empty mugs and crumbs scattered on the counter. Her footsteps were quick and light, barely a whisper on the stairs as she ascended with a mix of urgency.

Her destination? The Iceberg Lounge, where her favorite penguin awaited

Maryam while stalking her victims 🙂 :

author’s note (number two) | Umm, so my hands were itching to write a scene between Alma and Vitto, but… I was kind of scared you all would get too bored with it, even though I’m totally obsessed with this little ship. I wanted to add more depth and show things from their perspective, you know? So if you're interested in reading something like that, let me know!

And don’t worry—Bruce and Maryam are definitely on their way; I’m just busy building the narrative, lol.

Seriously, tell me what you think! Who’s your favorite character and why? I love reading your comments; they keep me motivated to write more!

28 notes · View notes

astarlitsoul · 6 months

Text

Morning Star

Azriel x OC

@starfallweek prompt: Character A is a fallen star, Character B finds them.

A/n: This is my first time posting on tumblr (Ik I'm a decade late) and my first time trying to write fanfic. I wanted to give this prompt from Starfall Week a try. I hope to make at least a second part bc I'm a sucker for a happy ending. Feedback is appreciated, I hope you enjoy.

This is set a year after ACOSF when the red star (likely Aelin) was seen by Rhysand on Starfall.

Warnings: Angst, blood, wounds (not too graphic), I think that's it...

Rhys had truly outdone himself this year. In anticipation of Nesta and Cassian’s wedding, the High Lord had created his largest guest list yet for the upcoming Starfall. The House of Wind had been undergoing preparations for the week prior to the holiday in preparation for all the guests. The residence was being readied to host the courtiers and their plus ones, the ruling families of allied courts, and Keir and Lord Devlon plus their ilk. Even the owners of businesses the Inner Circle frequented had been extended an invitation.

Azriel had attended far more of the balls than he could remember. In his youth, Rhys, Cassian, and he would perch atop the roof of Rhys’ mother's house to watch the streaks of light until they dwindled away. In his adolescence, it was not uncommon for one of them, often Cassian, to bring their lover at the time and share kisses under the show. (Of course, the perpetrator would be teased to no end the following day.) More recently, as Rhys and Cass found their mates, Azriel found himself missing those days. He was happy for his brothers, and he loved his found sisters. But that didn’t change the feelings of unworthiness that were spurred when he was left without a date at event after event.

In the recent weeks leading up to Starfall, these thoughts were the subject of Azriel’s dreams. The dreams were not nightmares, per se, which Azriel was well acquainted with. They all began with a depiction of a different Starfall from his youth. However, the good memories were soured when Rhys and Cassian would fall silent beside him atop the roof. Azriel would call out for them, but their eyes would remain glued to the sky as if seeing something he couldn’t. They pointed and murmured things he couldn’t hear before they grabbed him in an attempt to winnow away.

Even now, as he flew home the morning before the holiday, he found himself thinking over the dreams. Lost in thought, he was surprised to find himself flying over the quaint cabin. He had subconsciously altered his flight path to pass the first home he’d known. Landing softly in front of Rhys’ mother’s house, he scanned his surroundings before entering. Assured that the sun was just beginning its ascent and that much of the world still slept, he entered the cabin.

Strolling through the small foyer and into the kitchen, he observed just how worn it was. As boys, they did a number on the cabin, leaving lasting scuffs on the floor and permanent dents in their favorite chairs. He loved the damages now, seeing them for what they were. Signs of life, proof that joy and love had filled the space. Proof that even he had known joy and love. After walking through the small rooms, he exited and flew up to the roof. He told himself he wouldn’t get too comfortable, that he’d rest for only a few moments before heading to the House of Wind. Facing the spot where the sun threatened to rise from the ocean, he took in the orange and pink hues of the pre-dawn sky. While Velaris was mostly obscured by the trees, he could glimpse the city in the distance.

His musings were interrupted by a rising feeling that moved from his stomach up behind his ribs. His shadows, which had settled into languid movements upon arrival at the cabin, began flaring out from him in a frenzy. He inhaled deeply at the foreign sensation, and it was then that he noticed the first star in the darkening sky. Azriel cocked his head at it. Prythian's brightest star — and the last to disappear each morning — should lay behind him in the sky. His confusion only grew as the star began flickering and growing.

No, not growing, approaching. The white-hot mass was careening towards him. He ducked, lying flush against the roof, his shadows making themselves scarce in the presence of the foreign glow. He closed his eyes against the brightness before he felt a wave of searing heat through his leathers as it passed overhead. Only when the light stopped attempting to shine through his shut lids, did Azriel open his eyes. Standing once more he looked himself over, then at his surroundings. Whatever it was had bowed the trees in its path, unobscuring the view to Velaris and leaving char marks and a glittering substance in its wake.

Let us see. Let us investigate. A few of his shadows hovered in front of his face, and he permitted them to follow the path. Reaching for Truth-Teller, Azriel wracked his mind for any information he’d know of objects falling into their atmosphere. He’d gone with Rhys to see multiple experts about the upcoming celestial event. The High Lord was still shaken by the red star he’d seen during last year's Starfall. Yet none of the court’s prophets nor astronomers had forecast this. They’d all claimed the view on Starfall was set to be uninterrupted, that only good things would come from the spectacle. It was another reason that Azriel’s dreams confused him. And a reason why he didn’t mention it to his brothers.

There is blood, Master. So much blood. His shadows whizzed back to him, wrapping around his middle and tugging him in the direction of the foreign object. Taking to the sky, he spotted a clearing a few hundred feet behind the cabin that hadn’t been there before. Upon passing the last of the trees, Azriel drew up short and hovered over the sight. There were so few things that turned his stomach after centuries of horrors. But the sight of a body laying in the crater, a tangle of limbs and wings and branches and moss had the foreign feeling returning to his chest. Landing softly, he rolled the hilt of his dagger in his palm, a nervous tic of his. He stood at the edge of the crater and found his throat tightening as he took a closer look.

The being was breathtaking, even as it lay limply in the ground. Pale blue feathers lay beneath the body, adorning wings that bent at a too-wrong angle. The being was dressed in nondescript robes of a darker blue hue, which now lay in tatters. Much of the flesh that wasn’t shredded, was obscured by long, curly locks of dark hair and a thick layer of glittering dust. His shadows were snaking their way towards the body, picking up some of the glistening flecks as they approached when they froze suddenly.

Alive. But the breaths are too shallow. There is a great wound.

A faint groan escaped the being and he found himself stepping down into the crater. Precaution thrown to the wind, he saw no need to intimidate the dying creature. It appeared female, as he took in the soft facial features and shapely figure as she lay against the dark soil.

“Hello?” he asked gently.

Another groan, then a cry as the being shifted. Tightening his grip on Truth-Teller, Azriel watched a shaky hand emerge from beneath a heap of feathers to reach for what he believed was a thigh. It was then he saw the wound. The Illyrian winds had been known to whisk away even the largest tents and banners, typically with sandbags and iron posts still attached. The stake of one of those posts was protruding through the leg, too close to the center for her femur to still be intact.

“Hey hey hey,” he sputtered as he reached for the delicate hand hoping to prevent her from causing herself further harm. While he was no healer, he knew that the bones and arteries in the thigh posed a life threat when damaged. The moment his scarred hand closed around her wrist her eyes flew open.

Time may as well have frozen. His eyes met her own, pools of a similar hazel but flecked with stardust. Within his chest, he felt a new ebb and flow. Not of his diaphragm as he remembered to breathe, but of his end of the mating bond that had awoken within him. He was shaken from the moment when another cry left her lips.

She began speaking frantically in a language he’d never heard as she attempted to move, her eyes jumping between his face, his shadows, his flared wings, and the weapon in his hand. Her feathered wings shifted again, as she attempted to free her other arm. Sheathing his dagger, he held up his hands, a sign that he meant no harm. Realizing the efforts to free herself were futile, the female stilled, throwing him a pleading look.

He brought his hands towards the wound slowly, one hand steadying the bloodied stake before the other felt beneath her leg. Wherever the stake had come from, this piece had broken off when it caught in her leg.

She must be moved. She will not last long. His shadows had been working their way around her form, through the hair, feathers, and tatters as they tried to gain a full picture for their master. A few of them brushed the hair off of her face, while others seemed to stroke her hand. Something in his chest squeezed at their report.

“Let me,” he gestured to himself, “help you.” He finished by making a scooping motion with his arms. Azriel had no idea if she understood his miming, or if the bond had come to life in her chest too, but she nodded once in agreement. He pushed an arm under her back gently, before leaning her torso up from the ground. Her face screwed in pain and he paused as she took a shaky breath. He ordered his shadows to steady the stake before pushing his arms under her legs as well.

Standing up, he took note of her limp wings. What he had believed were two large wings, were actually two sets of wings. Looking up at her face, he flared his shadows as he prepared to shadow-walk to Velaris. Once again, despite her ragged breathing and pained face, she nodded at him with resignment in her eyes. Azriel was unsure if she could feel it, but he tried to soothe her through the bond before he allowed his shadows to envelope them. He hoped that she was able to receive the calming waves he sent her, and none of the panic he felt as his mate’s blood soaked his leathers.

#starfallweek2024 #acotar #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #acotar oc #starfallweek #starfall #its my first post be nice plsss

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